Fallout
by ruth baulding
Summary: In which the boys investigate a tragically devastated planet, thwart the powers of darkness, make a sensible decision about wartime attire, and bicker incessantly.
1. Chapter 1

**Fallout**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 1<strong>

It was raining. Kriffing _raining. _ On top of everything else.

Anakin Skywalker pulled his right foot out of the sucking morass of mud and debris, and then his left foot. Standing for too long in one place meant slowly sinking into that place, up to your kneecaps. He didn't mind dust and sand and grit. But mud! Take it and shove it. Cold droplets spattered on his upturned face, which felt good. He was still hot and sore and bruised from the savage battle. He could swear even his prosthetic hand was aching in exhaustion.

But there wasn't time to think about that _now._

Through the driving sheets of moisture, the clone nicknamed Cody was slogging his way forward. He had a number, CT-something-something, but Anakin couldn't remember it. Cody probably preferred to have a name anyway, like a real person.

As soon as the white-armored officer was close enough to hear, the question burst out of the young Jedi's mouth. "Where is he?"

The helmeted head cocked to one side, a little. "With respect, sir, we are looking. It's a large battlefield, and there are many casualties. Not to mention obstacles." The ruined cadavers of massive battle machines littered the plain. Yeah. It was quite a mess. Anakin might feel proud, if he didn't feel so…

"That's not _good enough, _ damn it! Find him!"

The clone was a genetic copy of Fett, rumored to be one of the toughest bad-asses in the galaxy. He tore his helmet off with one hand and stared down the brash young General, brown eyes hard and shining. "_With respect, _ General, you're the one with special powers. Can't _you_ find him?"

Chisszk, the barve had nerve. He could be _court-martialed_ for that. But he hadn't misjudged his man. Anakin merely scowled back at him. Rain ran down both their faces, washing away sweat and blood and trailing filth. Cody's armor was dented and burned. Anakin's tunics were slashed and torn and ruined. They stood locked in sopping opposition for a long moment.

Anakin exhaled. "I've been trying… but he might be seriously injured," he admitted. "I can't feel him. You've _got_ to find him. That's an order."

"Right." Cody jammed the helmet back in place. Clones took orders. Everybody knew that. It was as universally true as the statement _Jedi will sacrifice themselves for others._

"Vape it, Obi Wan!" The young General yanked his right boot out of the slush, and then his left. Kriff this. He set off across the body-strewn field himself. In the mud, the stained heaps of white armor looked a lot like stained heaps of white tunic. You really couldn't tell the difference. One mangled pile of bone and flesh was pretty much the same as the next one, once you got down to it, once the Force was gone. He dragged his way across the sticky terrain, water now gluing his clothing to his body, running chill down his spine. Kriff. Kriff.

Then he spotted it – a crater the size of an oozball field. That would be the biggest mess of all, the place where the Seppie tactical base had been set up, the nerve center of their operation. Some of the slagged metal was still smoldering in the rain, sending up stinking rivulets of heavy smoke. The _mud_ was blackened with the aftermath of the explosion. Clone bodies were sprawled everywhere, often half-covered in the broken remains of battle droids. Anakin sloughed through the ooze, around the perimeter.

Something flickered at the edge of his awareness, and he caught his breath. There. There. Here. He was running, sliding and tripping through an endless vista of mud. He kicked aside some droid bits, leapt over a clone's inert body, dropped to his knees in the squelching dark filth.

"Master! … _Kriff, _master." His hands were slipping in mingled scarlet and slime.

A weak voice chided him. "Language, Padawan."

"Not your Padawan anymore." _Kriff. Kriff. _ He really should watch his mouth. He grabbed a handful of tunic, got one arm under Obi Wan's shoulders, hauled him up out of the mire. They went down again.

"…Sloppy footwork," Obi Wan smiled, eyes sliding shut as his too-heavy limbs slid back into the pool of muck beneath them.

Anakin caught him. The rain kept coming.

"Well, really..." Obi Wan muttered in annoyance, "….seen better days…"

"Shut up, master. I'm getting you out of here." His mind ground back into gear, thoughts rushed in to fill the gap left by panic. He groped for his comlink, summoned Cody's medics. The minutes seemed like hours.

He couldn't really tell how much of the blood was actually a wound, and how much was just rainwater and mud and dribbling scarlet. He found Obi Wan's 'saber, lying in the ooze a half-meter away, and called it into his own hand, clipped it at his belt. The clones finally appeared, with a hover gurney and a bunch of other stuff. Anakin stood back, completely soaked through, coated in clinging filth all over his front and up to the elbows of both hands.

The war had barely begun, and already he had begun to hate war.

* * *

><p>Anakin delivered the report to the Council alone, and dripping wet. So what if he looked like a drowned akk pup? The blue holoprojector field would conceal the greater part of the filth, and besides, he was a <em>hero –<em> the commanding officer in a campaign that had just put a serious crimp in the Separatists' plans for the Mid Rim. And even the Council would have to acknowledge that fact now.

"Well done, Skywalker," Mace Windu's flickering image admitted. Anakin thought it sounded a bit reluctant, as though praise had been torn from unwilling lips, but he gave the Korun master credit: he was honest. And he meant the words.

"The death toll would have been twice as high had it not been for the timely destruction of the tactical base," Ki Adi Mundi added, nodding gravely.

Anakin bowed. Of course they had to remind him that not all the credit was his – but he was willing to share the glory with Obi Wan, a little. "I'll tell Master Kenobi. It was his command."

"And his condition?" Master Windu added, a genuine note of concern creeping in beneath the gruff tones.

Anakin released a breath. "It's bad but the medics think he'll live."

"Recalled to Coruscant you both are," Yoda huffed. His hunched shoulders looked a bit more hunched. One hundred Jedi had perished on Geonosis; nearly as many again in the first few months of the war. Every extinguished life seemed to chisel away at the tiny master, carving a new channel or crevice into his already age-worn face. It was absurd, but Yoda had never looked _old_ before now.

"Yes, master. We will make all due speed."

Report finished, everybody loaded back in the cruiser's belly, the battlefield smearing into a mangled clot of mud and debris as they rose into the atmosphere, Anakin was at last free to clean up. He discarded his thrashed clothing, borrowed replacements from the naval uniform supply, washed the dried mud from his hair – finally growing out of its Padawan crop, more tousled now, looking less like a roughly trimmed _miralla_ hedge – and took time to carefully clean the grit from his prosthetic's delicate joints and servos. Tabards and belt back on, with the two 'sabers, and he was ready to face the rest of the ship again. Clones and naval officers gave him some space now. They looked _at _him, not just past him to his master. He was _somebody. _ He was a Jedi, and they knew it.

He made a beeline for the med-ward.

It was full. Full of the efficient clone medics, and their genetically identical assistants and brothers, all of them tending to their maimed and moaning – and genetically identical – brothers. Hundreds of golden-skinned, dark eyed men with a dark scruff of hair and a fierce stubborn gleam in their dark eyes murmured and bustled and thrashed and moaned and shouted orders and ground out curses. It was a kaleidoscopic scattering of one face and one voice. It made finding Obi Wan ridiculously easy.

Anakin threaded his way across the busy deck, between neat rows and moving obstacles, until he found his master. The clones had seen fit to partition off this one cot with curtains, for some reason. Certainly they afforded each other little privacy, nor did they seem to crave it. But the Jedi merited at least one degree of separation, apparently. Sergeant Axx, the clone medic in charge of this end of the operation, was looking a bit harried – another predictable indication of his patient's identity.

Anakin shoved aside the pale curtain and barged in. "How is he?"

The poor medic looked up at him and ran a hand over his tired face. "Cooperating better, sir," he reported. "…Now that we've knocked him out. With all due respect, sir."

Anakin smirked. "That's quite all right, Sergeant. Believe me, I understand."

The clone looked palpably relieved. Probably thought he had violated a sacred tenet of the Jedi religion by dumping so many chems into the wounded man's system; and if you had asked Obi Wan, he likely would have agreed. But Anakin took a more pragmatic approach to such things, and they were many light-years away from a Temple healer, so what else was anyone supposed to do?

"So what's the damage? I need to let our people on Coruscant know."

Emboldened by Anakin's approval of his crisis management style, the sergeant relaxed into a less stiff and formal attitude. He rubbed one knotted hand over his shaven scalp. "Well, General, it ain't pretty. Corker and Shag – those two came through here earlier with minor abrasions and burns – they were in that unit. And it sounds like the General took the brunt of it when the tactical unit blew."

"Of course he did," Anakin muttered. _Kriff it, master._

"Yeah," the clone continued. "They said the explosives had a faulty timer and went off before the whole squadron got out. Apparently General Kenobi …uh…_threw?_ the men into the clear and then sorta shielded them from the shrapnel and so on – I couldn't make sense of it but they swear that's what happened. I guess he took a few chunks of metal in the chest, arms, legs. Lucky he didn't get hit in the head, too, except a little scrape here and there. Had to dig a couple smaller pieces out." The medic stopped, self-consciously, and then decided to plough onward. "If you don't mind me saying so, sir, you Jedi oughta wear some armor out there on the battlefield."

Anakin nodded darkly. Not a bad idea. "You're right," he said.

"With all due respect, General.."

"Thank you, Sergeant. Take good care of him for me."

The clone understood that last bit, Anakin could see it on his face. Axx's job was to take care of _his_ brothers, so he probably got the basic sentiment just fine. As he departed, the young Jedi reflected on the clone medic's advice. Armor really wouldn't really be a bad idea at all. Especially for Obi Wan, who had no sense of self-preservation whatsoever. He was the kind of person who led every charge, taunted every captor, and had been known to fling himself head-first through windows five hundred stories above street level in order to pursue an escaping assassin. And then lecture his Padawan about caution and restraint in the next breath. That might work fine and dandy in the regular, everyday routine of Jedi life….but Anakin was sure of one thing. If his master kept at it now, here, in the war – he was going to get himself killed.

And Anakin wasn't going to have that. He began to formulate a plan.


	2. Chapter 2

**Fallout**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 2<strong>

A deep healing trance was a tricky thing. Not exactly unpleasant; that would be a misnomer - but certainly involving a disquieting sensation of _vulnerability_ in its aftermath. One felt disconnected, almost adrift.

Obi Wan had never got used to it, though you would think he'd had more than enough practice in the course of his career. He concentrated on waking up, pushing past the idle, lethargic heaviness toward full awareness, out of the soft netherworld into harsh sensation – but something kept pulling him back.

_Come here, Padawan. You need to see this._

Not that there was a voice – not precisely. That would be an exaggeration. But certainly there was a concrete sense of intention, of command. It was unexpected, almost confusing. He tried to throw up a mental wall, but found that this persistent sense of command was woven of the same Light as his defenses, and passed through them as sunlight filters through glass.

_Stop fighting. There is something you must see._

The Force flowed warm and golden around him, and there was no sense of threat – much the opposite. Yet reluctance tinged his response. This was something foreign and yet undiscovered, and on the whole, the tranquil lassitude that had preceded it was preferable. He was immensely tired, still. He withdrew, edging toward wakefulness again, unsure what to make of this odd experience. He could have sworn he heard the Force sigh in exasperation - which was completely absurd -and he hesitated fractionally.

Two names impressed themselves upon him with stunning clarity, as though inscribed in burning light. _Rhellis Massa. Sen Sen Xerxes. _And then he was released, with a subtle caress of light, and left to float slowly back into consciousness.

For a while he just blinked and breathed, and sorted out the abrupt shift of scenery, slotting fragments of memory back into a temporal sequence. Ah, yes. Kaion. Mud, rain, sky-shaking explosions, blaster bolts, clones shouting screaming dying running, and the tactical base. Oh. The _tactical base._ Yes, that hurt. Anakin had showed up at some point, distressed and not in control of his emotions. Then there had been the cruiser and the clone medics. And then…. well, here he was. This was the Temple's healing ward, so it was a fair guess that he was currently a prisoner at the healers' mercies.

He shifted a bit and sought the places where super-heated metal shards had punctured his flesh. He seemed to be more or less intact, though hellishly sore and wrapped up in bandages in quite a few places. That was good. It implied that the _bacta_ part of this dreary routine had already been completed. He might be able to effect his escape sooner than anticipated. It was a cheering thought.

Force-flicking the pile of blankets off, he levered himself upright and slid his feet to the cold floor. Three cleansing breaths to shake off the remnants of vertigo and weakness. Maybe four or five. Better. Had Anakin already made the Council report? Most likely. Hopefully he had refrained from undue boasting, and not presented the _tactical base_ exploit in a melodramatic fashion. Where had the blasted healers stowed his clothing, and more importantly, his lightsaber? Hm. The jailers were getting cleverer with passing time.

Speaking of which, two absurdly young apprentice healers poked their heads through the doorway and squeaked in indignation.

"Master Kenobi!" the bolder of the two accosted him. "Master Li says you should not be up yet!"

He skewered the youngling with his gaze. "As you can, see, he is mistaken. I should like a word with him, however, Padawan."

They scampered away to fetch the senior healer, too intimidated even to cross the threshold.

Ben To Li played multiple roles in the Halls of Healing. He was warden, chief inquisitor, captain of security, and executioner all at once. It was a heavy burden of responsibility; surely it weighed cruelly upon his aging shoulders.

The senior healer cocked one bushy eyebrow at him as he entered. "Your thoughts betray you," he chided, waving the door closed behind him. He was not intimidated in the least.

Obi Wan crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm here to negotiate the terms of my release."

Ben To snorted. "You are here until I say you can go. No parole, no plea bargaining, no hostage exchange and none of your krayt-oil-salesman diplomacy. On the Council's explicit authority. Now lie back down or I'll have you confined in _solitary."_

Master Li was not the nurturing type. Obi Wan released a long-suffering sigh and decided to cooperate, for the time being. He could be patient. He had extricated himself from worse situations. A show of docility now might lull the crafty healer into a false sense of security.

"You're not fooling me," Ben To quipped, checking the biomonitor and making entries into the datachart. "Though I suppose this is a very positive sign of improvement. Now: Master Skywalker has been pestering me for hours to let him see you. Shall I let him know you are entertaining visitors?"

Anakin. "Yes, master, I would be most grateful. Thank you."

The healer favored him with a suspicious glare, but said nothing. He merely nodded once and left, presumably to contact Anakin.

Obi Wan settled back against the pillows and mused upon the strange Force…vision? No. It hadn't been a vision. It had been more like an…encounter. A communication. It was the strangest thing he had ever felt in a meditative state. Perhaps it hadn't been from the Force at all, and was merely an injury induced hallucination. But this possibility, though marginally attractive, did not have the ring of truth to it. Deep down, in the realm of instinctual knowledge, he _knew_ that the bizarre experience had been quite objective and real. It had been saturated in Light. And yet he still couldn't dispel an uneasy feeling about it. He turned the memory of it over and over in his mind, brooding upon its possible meanings until Anakin finally arrived to distract him.

* * *

><p>"So," Anakin gloated, Force-pulling a chair over to the bedside and straddling it, "You don't have to thank me profusely for saving your neck."<p>

Obi Wan thought about it. "No," he agreed. "I don't. I think the debt still stands at forty-three or so in my favor."

"Forty-two," Anakin mumbled. "That business on the _Conquistador _ when I was sixteen doesn't really count."

The older man raised an eyebrow. "Yes, I would rather like to forget about that incident, too, Anakin. But you must accept that all our tribulations are the will of the Force, and meant to teach a lesson."

"Really." The chair rocked back, balancing precariously on the edge of its torus- shaped base. "And what lesson did the famous Master Kenobi learn from this last engagement?"

Obi Wan dismissed this with a wave.. "Check your explosives' timing devices before setting them. Of course, I would have, had not my hands been lamentably full of battle droids."

"So what really happened out there, master?"

At this point, an apprentice healer stuck his head through the doorway, squinting balefully at the patient, who graced him with a beatific smile of innocence and held up his hands in a gesture of peace. "You can report that the prisoner is still secure and there has been no sign of an escape attempt," he said.

The Padawan's mouth thinned, but he nodded curtly and withdrew.

"You're plotting your escape right now," Anakin snorted.

"Of course I am, but he doesn't need to know that. What were we talking about?"

"You getting blown to bits on Kaion."

"Oh…yes. Well, we managed to infiltrate their forward defenses and the automatic security without any real difficulty. But when we reached the power generator there was a bit of a …ah… complication."

"Ambush."

Obi Wan shrugged. "So naturally I sent the clones on ahead to get the job done while I stayed and chatted with Dooku's battle droids. It wasn't a very _intelligent_ ambush, really – one hallway, low ceiling, limited mobility." He paused, frowning. "I would have planned the attack in the actual core chamber – much more strategic possibility."

"Maybe. But you got hit."

Now Master Obi Wan looked outraged.. "I _can_ accomplish basic tasks without your assistance," he griped. "Of course I didn't get hit. There were only forty or fifty of them, for star's sake. It did slow down the retreat a bit – we had to climb back over the mess. But we made it almost to the perimeter before the detonator signaled a malfunction."

Anakin rolled his eyes. "So instead of taking cover like a sane person, you use the Force to throw all your men out of harm's reach and then what? Try to block the debris from hitting them?"

There might have been some color rising into Obi Wan's cheeks, but it was hard to tell in the muted lighting. "It seemed like a good idea at the time," he admitted. "They would have been seriously injured."

"Huh. I seem to remember enduring a lot of lectures about overestimating my own abilities and the dangers of hubris blah blah blah."

Obi Wan's eyes narrowed, dangerously. "I don't think you quite do justice to my eloquence, Anakin."

"_Forgive _me, my master." The chair's base snapped back down to the floor. Anakin leaned forward. "You could easily have been killed. You were half-dead when I found you," he accused.

"This is a _war_, my young friend. In case you haven't noticed. And we must do our duty, no matter the cost."

"Some people would say that a commanding officer's job is to minimize casualties and make pragmatic decisions, not absurdly self-endangering heroic gestures."

"We are _Jedi, _ Anakin. Not _some people."_

"Okay, okay." He could see that this wasn't the time to push his point. A full frontal assault never worked on Obi Wan anyway, either in the dojo or an argument. You had to be sneaky, take him off guard. Which wasn't easy to do, either. But Anakin had more than a decade of practice.

They were silent for a moment. Obi Wan kept a stern eye fixed on his younger counterpart, as though he suspected something. He probably could _feel_ it in the Force. Anakin just returned the gaze steadily, not flinching. One thing his master had taught him was: never give up. And he might be a slow learner, but he was a _good_ learner too. He decided to dial it back a bit, take another diplomatic tack.

"Look, master, I've been working on something. I'd like your opinion on it, once you're out of here."

The Jedi master squinted at him dubiously. "You want my opinion on your latest engineering atrocity?"

Testy, testy…a half-starved akk vetch didn't bite as much as Obi Wan on the mend. Which, in Anakin's mind, was another point in favor of _preventive measures._ "Not exactly…I mean, it's not a machine. I'd like your opinion…just promise me you'll keep an open mind."

"Why do I have a bad feeling about this?"

Anakin pressed a hand to his heart. "That cuts to the quick, master. I'm wounded."

"Oh, I'm sure." Obi Wan scoffed. "Very well: I shall honor your request, in exchange for your valuable services in another regard."

Uh oh. Maybe he shouldn't have tried negotiating with the Negotiator. Anakin knew that smug expression all too well. "What ?"

Obi Wan snapped back into his authoritative masterly mode, as though no time had passed, as though his former Padawan had never been Knighted. "Go to the Archives," he ordered. "You are familiar with them in theory if not in practice, I am sure. They have a thing there called a _database_ – which is a machine designed to organize information rather than to be recklessly piloted and crashed."

"You know you're an obnoxious convalescent, right? No wonder the healers always want to sedate you."

"That has _no _ relevance to my point, Anakin. You must be more mindful. Your task is to find every scrap of information you can about a Jedi named Sen-Sen Xerxes, or a planet called Rhellis Massa."

The young Jedi stood. "All right," he agreed, holding up a warning finger. "But I'm holding you to your end of the bargain." He paused. "And where did those two names come from?"

"Perhaps they were revealed to me in a Force vision."

Anakin could usually tell where the jest ended and the truth began, but there were occasions when his former master still utterly confounded him. "I'm not sure I believe you."

"_Now_ who's not open minded?"

On his way out, Anakin brushed shoulders with the same healer who had made an appearance earlier. "May the Force be with you," he muttered to the next unfortunate victim of Obi Wan's edgy mood, and dutifully made his way toward the Archives.


	3. Chapter 3

**Fallout**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3<strong>

"Hhmmmm." Master Yoda grumbled, rubbing one three-fingered hand over his ridged scalp, leaving the wisping ghosts of his hair standing straight up in tongues of white-silver fire. "A vision, you say?"

"No, master – not a vision. Something different. It was as though…well, as though the Force spoke to me." Obi Wan found himself uncharacteristically at a loss for words.

The ancient Jedi shifted his weight a bit, resting his clawed hands on his knees. Light slatting through the room's single window caught the fraying threads at the edges of his rumpled, aging robe. "Speak to us all the time, the Force does," he grunted. "Know this you do."

"Yes, master, but that's not what I mean. This was… I've never experienced it before. It was almost as though the Force was _personal."_ He stopped there, appalled by his own near-heretical boldness. What would Yoda say to him if he were to suggest that the Light had seemed to contract and embody itself into an individual form, a _presence_ so particular and warm that it might be called an individual? Most likely have him consigned to the mind healers' care for the rest of his life.

The ancient one waggled his ears humorously. "Think you are mad, I do not," he assured the younger Jedi.

Obi Wan managed a small rueful smile. "I don't know how to explain it," he said, spreading his hands palm-upwards. "Have _you _ ever experienced such a thing, master?"

Yoda cocked his head to one side thoughtfully. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. But yours, this experience was. Not mine. Matters not, does it, what I have seen or heard."

Ah. Forthright and clear advice as always. "It just seems…wrong. I don't trust it."

That earned him a stern wag of Yoda's finger. "Cautious, you must be. Trust it you do not, you say. But certain you are that from the Force this message came. Trust not the Force, do you?"

Not fair. Obi Wan shook his head. Seldom anymore did he struggle so helplessly. "Of course I do. But this…this is not the Force as I know it."

There was a silence between them. The sunlight continued to play on the worn edges of Yoda's clothing, the delicate fringe of white hair atop his head…the untrimmed whiskers sprouting from his ear. Obi Wan inhaled deeply. He could almost fill his lungs without a pang from his still-healing injuries. There was no reason why the healers should not release him. He could walk without passing out. A short distance, anyway. And he could certainly _think_ more clearly if he could just escape the confines of the medical ward and visit the serenity of the gardens, or even his own quarters.

"Escape a conundrum by changing places, you cannot," Yoda snorted, reading his mind with alarming ease.

"Yes, master," he sighed. "But haven't you any insight to offer?"

The tiny Jedi's luminous eyes widened. "Oh! Humble and accepting of help you are, now. Come to Master Yoda for assistance you will, but not listen to Master Li. Make up your mind, you must."

Again, completely unfair. Master Yoda always turned a simple question into an unbreakable wrestling hold. "I'll not try Master Li's patience any further. I promise."

He meant it. Yoda watched him warily, thin mouth puckered into a hard line. "Very well," the old one said at last, apparently satisfied, or at least amused by his discomfort. "Insight you wish. Strong in the Unifying Force are you, Obi Wan. Luminous. A sure guide it is to you. But the Living Force, perhaps other aspects it has to reveal. Unfamiliar. Strange, from your point of view. Open you should be to such experiences, not distrustful."

"I see." At least, he was resolved to meditate upon it until he _did _ see. And what Yoda said was true. Qui Gon had always reminded him that he had much to learn of the Living Force… and it was doubtless still true. The thought of his former master echoed dully in his chest, a long-healed yet never forgotten scar of regret. Yes. He _could_ expand his horizons, if that was the will of the Force. He could do that for Qui Gon's sake.

Yoda nodded sagely and shimmied his way off the foot of the bed. He called his gimer stick back into his hand and leaned upon its gnarled haft. "Rest," he commanded. "And if another such message you receive, tell me at once you should."

"I shall, master. Thank you."

Yoda harrumphed something in dismissal – a curt good-bye, one that might be mistaken for impatience or disdain by one unfamiliar with the eccentric old Jedi. But Obi Wan understood the meaning very well. He smiled, feeling somewhat less unsettled. Besides, he had a promise to keep. And the best way for him to stop trying Master Li's patience was to remove himself from Master Li's vicinity, as soon as possible. That was worth meditating upon, as well. He set himself to plotting out the terms of this bright possibility…and if he fell asleep mid-scheme, it was not for lack of willing enthusiasm.

* * *

><p>The Force had not blessed Anakin with a scholarly temperament.<p>

Which was occasionally a great impediment to his own ambitious goals. He rubbed his flesh hand over his weary eyes and tapped impatiently at the data-station's keypad with his prosthetic fingers. Vape it… he hated research projects like this. But at least he would have something to show Obi Wan for all his trouble. It was worth it to buy a small window of "open-mindedness" in which to introduce his newest invention.

He decided that if he stayed here in the Archives another second, the dams of his self-control would burst and he would make an unbecoming scene. Force knew what dire consequence such a display would bring down on his head from Jocasta Nu or her minions- and he had no desire to find out for himself. Shutting down the terminal, he thrust his datapad, with its store of gleaned information, back into a belt pouch and stretched until his spine cracked ominously in the silent halls.

Somebody studying at a nearby alcove glanced up at him with a disapproving tilt of the eyebrows. Anakin ignored the implied reprimand and made for the exit. Now, more than ever, he wondered what had inspired his friend to inquire after the planet and the name in question. There were entries corresponding to both of them in the Archive records, but no apparent connection. He ran the odd assortment of facts through his memory as he traversed the Temple's sprawling interior.

_Rhellis Massa_ was listed as uninhabited and uninhabitable according to the Republic Galactic Astrosurvey. A brief perusal of cross-indexed history files revealed that there once – more than a century ago now - had been civilization on the planet : colony settlements, two different species who never quite got along and eventually started a war in which primitive nuclear fission weapons had been the prevalent means of settling the dispute. Both sides had refused Jedi mediation, and eventually even mercantile transport interests offering evacuation services backed away because of the extensive radiation poisoning of the world's atmosphere and surface. The warring factions had nuked each other out of existence, and their former home had been a useless and toxic rock in a far-flung system ever since. There were no recorded attempts to rehabilitate the surface, primarily because there was no motive for investment. And nothing had changed or happened on Rhellis Massa in the last one hundred twelve standard years.

_Sen Sen Xerxes _was only slightly more interesting. He was a Jedi master – another relic of a past age, a respected member of the Order born more than _two_ hundred years ago on some backworld Anakin had never heard of, and apparently of a species possessed of a long lifespan. At the ripe young age of eighty he had left the Jedi – at least, he had _retired – _ in order to pursue undisclosed scholarly interests. The Council of the time, strangely enough, had approved this quest of his and sent him off with their blessing. He promptly disappeared into Wild Space and was never heard from again.

Yep. Obi Wan really knew how to pick winners. Two oddball bits of historical trivia, without the slightest relationship to each other. Anakin had _tried _ (there is no try) to dig up a link or even a common thread, but in the end he had concluded that his researches were doomed and that if his master wanted to find out more he would vaping well have to do the grunt work himself. Still, he couldn't help wondering what motivated the request, Force vision or not. He was no further along in his attempt to form a coherent connection between these two disparate bodies of fact, and about halfway to his intended destination, when he found his path intentionally blocked by none other than the Grand Master of the entire Order.

"Master Yoda!" he exclaimed, concealing his surprise with a deep bow.

"Skywalker," the ancient Jedi chuffed. "A word with you, if you please."

Half the time when Yoda wanted a word with him, it was concerning a matter of disciplinary intent. In the past, that always meant that Obi Wan would always be there to soften the blow, either by pleading on his Padawan's behalf or deflecting some of the blame onto himself. The new Knight had not yet grown accustomed to facing the Council's displeasure on his own. He found himself wondering what he could possibly have done to attract negative attention – after all, he'd been closeted in the Archives most the day.

But it would seem Yoda was not in a mood to chastise. "Sit," he commanded, indicating a bench set against the broad concourse's inner wall. Anakin lowered himself, curiously, as the tiny master scrambled and huffed his way onto the bench beside him. Then, to the young Jedi's utter astonishment, one gnarled hand reached out and gripped his knee in what was unmistakably a solicitous gesture.

"Loyal friend are you to Master Kenobi," Yoda observed, by way of starting a conversation.

"He raised me. He taught me everything I know about the path. I – we're – well…" He came to a halt, aware that some things were always left officially unsaid. He didn't want a lecture on misplaced attachment. He wasn't sure what the sly old Jedi master was getting at, so he decided to shut up before he wandered into a verbal trap.

"Hmph," Yoda snorted. "To see him now, you are on your way."

"Yes, master." How did the ancient troll know these things? It was uncanny. Disturbing, even. "He asked me to do some research for him in the Archives. You know my mast- Obi Wan. His mind is always on the move."

"Like your feet, hm. Good pair you make. Balanced."

Was that a compliment? Now Anakin was truly feeling uncomfortable. "Ah…master? What did you want to speak to me about?"

Yoda studied him with half-lidded eyes, ears sloping downward in disapproval, as though he had somehow already missed the point. The ancient Jedi made a rough, throat-clearing rumble deep in his chest and nodded a few times. "Dangerous is this war. Much death for the Jedi, already and yet to come. Other suffering, too. Foreseen it I have."

Anakin felt the icy thrill descend along his spine. Yeah, he knew. He _feared_ it. He couldn't _lose_ anyone else, not now, not so soon after… hastily, he shoved the memory of Tatooine and the Tusken camp to the back of his mind. He was a Jedi Knight. _That _ had never happened; it was consigned to the oblivion of the Force. There was only the present moment.

Yoda was watching him intently. "Stay close to Obi Wan, you should, Skywalker."

The chill passed fleet down his back again, cold lightning searing between each vertebra. Was that a warning? Did Yoda know something? He did not dare ask and he knew he wouldn't get a reply anyhow. "I give you my word, master. I will."

The ancient Jedi nodded one more time, gravely. He shoved his way to the floor, popped his hip joint back into place, and sighed. "Yes," he rasped. "Good. Much safer is it, that way."

And off he hobbled without a backward glance. Anakin watched him go, shocked that he found himself in such consonant agreement with Master Yoda. Then another thought struck him: what had the old Jedi meant by _it was safer that way? _ Safer…. for whom?


	4. Chapter 4

**Fallout**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 4<strong>

Obi Wan made his escape the following evening.

"Master!" Anakin's eyebrows rose in surprise, but perhaps not _too _much surprise, when he waved open the door to his quarters and discovered his friend and mentor standing on the doorstep, triumphantly clad in fresh tunics, 'saber gleaming at his belt, cloak draping to the floor in dark folds, eyes sparkling with satisfaction despite his wan complexion. Anakin stepped aside to admit his guest, and the door hissed shut again.

"You can't keep a good man down," Obi Wan declared smugly, running a hand through his hair and looking for a place to toss his cloak. Every square centimeter of Anakin's small private space was covered in tools and clutter. He settled for draping the robe over a half-disassembled astromech carapace, just the legs and drum with no dome. "Where'd that come from?"

"Picked it up after Kaion," Anakin supplied. "Not sure what I'm gonna do with it yet."

Obi Wan studied the droid remnant with mild repulsion. "It's rather macabre, don't you think?"

"Says the man who carves up droids for a living."

The Jedi master idly levitated a toolbox off the room's sole mediation cushion and took up position in its stead. "I make no profit from scrapping droids. It's an innocent avocation."

Anakin kicked a storage crate onto its side and perched atop it. "So. Master. It's good to see you, but what the kriff are you doing out of the Healers'?"

"Their first mistake," Obi Wan explained, "Was leaving the med droids in charge of the late shift. No doubt one of Li's apprentices is going to receive quite the tongue lashing when they discover my absence. But it's a fait accompli now; the paperwork has all been filed, and you know we mustn't meddle with the database."

"Yeah…but… how did you convince the med droid?"

"The Force can have a powerful influence on the weak-minded, my young friend."

Anakin folded his arms and snorted. "You _can't _ use a mind trick on a droid, master! That's impossible."

"I saw Master Qui Gon do it once." Obi Wan tilted his head just a trifle, daring Anakin to contradict him.

"What? No. I don't believe you." He studied his friend intently, but Obi Wan was projecting a wall of bland sincerity, so there was no way to know whether he was telling the truth or not. "Whatever. I'm not sure I want to know anyhow. But if they come looking for you here, I'm handing you over."

Now Obi Wan feigned deep hurt. "Betrayed by my own brother."

The word slipped out before he could censor himself. Anakin blinked, and they both looked away. One did not give voice to such…sentiment. Obi Wan must really not be feeling quite himself. Anakin hastily changed the topic.

"Well, now that you're free, you can keep your end of the bargain. You promised me an open-minded look at something, and now it's time to pay up."

"Do your worst," Obi Wan said. "I am prepared to do my duty."

Anakin rummaged among his various projects. Truth be told, he wasn't entirely finished. He had been expecting to have a couple more days to make final adjustments and to ponder the rhetorical approach he would need to take, but life seldom waited for anyone to be ready, and his master was in a …sentimental… mood, so this might be the best time after all. He found his latest masterpiece and held it up for inspection.

The Jedi master peered at it critically for a long moment. "And what pray tell is _that?_ It looks like a headpiece for a Felucian carnival parade. Don't tell me you've developed a taste for _costume design._ The Council won't approve, you know."

Anakin rolled his eyes and brandished his creation. Made of supercompressed plastoid composite, and comprised of a series of overlapping plates like feathers or scales, it had taken far more hours to complete than one might think. "It's _armor,_ master," he said in exasperation. "This is a chestplate. I designed it based on Archive records from ancient times. Jedi used to wear armor just like this back in the days of the old Sith wars."

Obi Wan cocked an eyebrow. "I should hardly have characterized you as a history buff before now," he said suspiciously. "Why the sudden interest in ancient lore?"

Anakin grinned. "You're right. I would have just made something up on my own, but I thought this would appeal more to someone like you."

"Someone like me?" the older Jedi repeated, eyes narrowing.

"Well, you know master: you _are_ pretty old-school."

A deep crease appeared between Obi Wan's eyebrows. "Anakin, I fail to see – "

"This is for you," Anakin pushed forward, brusquely. "Now try it on so I can make the final adjustments."

Obi Wan blinked, momentarily dumbfounded. Then his expression hardened into his most stubborn argumentative mode. "Just a moment, Anakin. I appreciate your concern, and I agree with your assessment that this war places us in great peril – but there are very good reasons behind the traditional saying: _a pure heart is the only true shield against darkness."_

"Yeah, yeah. But not a blaster bolt through the heart." Anakin's eyes flashed. "In case you've forgotten, you_ just now_ left the healer's ward after nearly getting skewered on a battlefield!"

"That was an unforeseen complication," Obi Wan corrected him peevishly. "I think I am as capable as anyone else of –"

"Of getting seriously hurt or killed by a stray bolt deflecting off your saber," Anakin interrupted heatedly. "You always lectured me about the danger of believing in my own invincibility. About how overconfidence is the shadow of pride."

"Well, yes, that's all true, but –"

"No but!" the young Jedi snapped. "Please, Obi Wan. Humor me."

"Anakin, while you may no longer be my Padawan, I feel obliged to point out that our roles have not undergone a complete reversal. I am under no obligation to humor you or to otherwise bow to your dictate or whim."

"You _said _ you would be open-minded, master! You gave me your _word."_

"Blast it, Anakin." Obi Wan tightened his angry posture, arms crossed defensively over his chest. "Open-minded does not mean _empty-minded."_

That hurt. Stars, why did his former master have to be such a kriffing gundark all the time? "You're not listening! You _never_ do!"

Obi Wan bit back his next retort and took a deep calming breath. There was a smoldering silence. Then, "I'm listening. I'm sorry."

Anakin sank back down onto his crate, leaned forward, deliberately calmed his own racing breath. "Look. I'm not your Padawan anymore. I'm your friend." _Brother._ _You said it yourself before you remembered not to._ "And we're fighting a war together. I need you to do this. I won't be able to concentrate or do my duty if I'm worried all the time. I can't lose you, too, master."

The older mans' sigh was barely audible. "Anakin," he muttered. Deep breath. "That is… very problematic. As you know."

Deflated, Anakin scowled at the floor. "I know." Damn it.

"But I _did_ promise to be open minded. And I shall keep that promise. You may as well outline the remainder of this brilliant plan. I take it there is more to this _armor_ than that star-forsaken thing."

There was still a cutting edge to that statement, but Anakin was grateful for the tiny reprieve. He looked up. "Yes. Arm and leg greaves borrowed from the clone issue stuff. And the energy-dispersal bodysuit underneath, You can wear your Jedi surcoat on top, belt, saber, everything. Oh. And a helmet."

"What?" Obi Wan's look of distaste was almost comical. "Anakin, humoring you is one thing but playing _masquerade ball _ is another. And how are the troops supposed to identify their General when he looks like yet another blasted one of them?"

The young Jedi was undeterred. "You stand out in a crowd, master. They'll be able to pick you out, even with a helmet on. You're the cranky barve giving all the orders."

"No," Obi Wan said flatly, cutting through the air with one hand, posture rigid with defiance. "I absolutely draw the line at a helmet."

"Why? Why not cover your head, for stars' sake?"

"Because I _hate_ it, that's why. Almost as much as I hate flying."

Anakin smirked. He had forgotten about his mentor's absurd claustrophobia regarding his face. "You grew up doing everything blindfolded. I saw the younglings in the crèche. I had to do all the same drills. We practically had to practice _pissing_ blindfolded. You should be used to it, master."

Obi Wan's eyes sparked with outrage. "I said, _no."_

"Fine. " Anakin knew when to give ground at a negotiating table. "Whatever you say. But everything else. You promised."

"I did no such thing. I promised to be open –minded. I'll _think_ about it."

Anakin decided to interpret this as a minor triumph. He beamed. "If it makes you feel any better, I'm working on another chestplate, for me to wear."

"Oh charming," Obi Wan grumbled, reverting to sarcasm. "We'll match. How very…cute. Perhaps the droid armies will simply fall to bits at the sight of us."

"That's' the idea," Anakin retorted with a ferocious grin. "But not 'cause we're cute."

They glared at each other affectionately for a moment. Then Obi Wan's head turned slightly. He frowned. "Ah. I think… yes. Master Li has sent out a search party. Time for me to move along."

Anakin saw him to the door. "Night."

Obi Wan disappeared into his dark cloak and melted into the shadows of the corridor, a minute or two before a bedraggled looking Padawan from the healer's ward came trotting down the passage.

"Master Skywalker!" the young apprentice panted, looking up at him hopefully.

"I have no idea where he is," he told her.

* * *

><p>The balcony was one of the highest in the Temple, situated near the base of the southern spire. It was a favorite vantage point and waiting-place for those who were to be summoned to the Council chamber, or for those who needed to decompress after a tense session. It was a spectacular place to watch a Coruscanti sunset, too; though now the gorgeous spectacle was long past and there was nothing to look upon but the glistening web of air traffic and the distant glow of the city's more vivacious sectors.<p>

It was open to the outside air, to the skies, to the stars above, even though they could not be seen. It was a good place to meditate in tune with the Living Force. Obi Wan lowered his hood and let the cool night air sweep over his skin. He let the noise of the metropolis wash over him, the stink of ozone emissions, the tang of pollution on the back of his tongue, the buzz of the ever-moving speeders in the sky. He preferred solitude and quiet on the whole, but this was an experiment. A stretch in the opposite direction, a pushing of limits.

He knew what to do. Qui Gon had drilled him incessantly until he was proficient enough. But as a Knight, as a Master, he had pursued his own way. The way of unity. The way of wholeness, vision, totality. Perhaps it was time to remember the other aspects of the Force as well, as Yoda had suggested. He remembered not to _widen_ his focus, but to narrow it.

No, that wasn't right. He could almost hear Qui Gon chiding him. _Not narrow, deepen. Focus, Padawan. _ Yes, he could do that. Not narrow. He was accustomed to losing himself in the Force during meditation, melting into the plenum until there was no difference, until his awareness was a mere overtone in the harmony of the whole, and the threads of past and future, connection and influence, all wove a pattern in which he flowed and threaded his way, like water, like fluid light. That was one way. But there were others.

One could simply _open_ one's self to the Force, keeping a solid mooring in a very specific time and place: the here, the now. And then let the rampaging currents of universal energy flood through one in ceaseless, giddying torrent. Dizzying – that was how he had described it to his master once long ago. His complaint had elicited a raised eyebrow and a chuckle. Qui Gon had not hated flying, either.

Anakin was in tune with the living Force sometimes. So much that he was dizzying.

Obi Wan was surrounded by temperaments so different from his own. They challenged him. They balanced him. They…tempted him. Sometimes. He breathed out. Deepen. But stay in the moment. The Force, and yet the _now. _The _here. _ The Living reality, but still the particular. So strange.

_From your point of view,_ he reminded himself. He loved the other point of view too. Or at least the other people who had been shaped by the Force in its other image. Love. It didn't seem as foreign in this modality. It fit in, somehow. He let the thought go. Deepen. Stay grounded. Open. The Force, always in motion, always the same.

_Well met._

Eyes closed, he tensed. He could still hear every detail of the outer world – more, even, than before. And yet that had been an inner voice, and not his own.

_Relax. _

This was so strange. He felt put upon, in some degree. How dare the Force... _behave _ in such a way?

_Impudent as always, I see. But still obedient, I hope. You must go to Rhellis Massa. It's important._

Rhellis Massa, the dead world? Why? Why must he go? But there were no answers. Such things , such queries belonged to the realm of unity, of purpose and destiny. This was the moment, the deep origin point. He was stepping out of bounds, he supposed. But to be told so peremptorily that he must do this or that… In this meditative state, he could even feel his own breath's minute texture: hot, swelling with suspicion and dread, swirling in his lungs, released, the pause between. Had this…voice…consulted with the Council before it began issuing orders?

And then he heard a soft chuckle, not his own. _You still have much to learn._

The next instant, he was pulling away, hard. Shallow sensory reality crashed back into place with a jagged throb behind his temples. Oh, no. No no no. The clone medic aboard the cruiser had assured him that there had been no sign of concussion, of serious head injury. He was beginning to doubt the fellow's competence. Sucking in a great lungful of stinging, polluted night air, and turning away from the railing with a sharp movement, he yanked his cloak about his body and strode briskly into the Temple's interior. That had been disturbing – and compelling.

He knew two things with certainty. He needed to speak to Yoda again.

And he needed to go to Rhellis Massa.


	5. Chapter 5

**Fallout**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 5<strong>

Yoda sat placidly in his accustomed spot, bars of light and dark falling across his face, his robe, the meditation cushion, the floor between them.

Obi Wan paced. His footfalls traversed the pattern: shadow, luminance. Mystery, revelation. Intuition, reason. Denial, permission. Discipline, compassion. Contemplation, action. Body, spirit. Unity, individuality. The Force, the Force. All of it, the whole, balanced from all eternity. He was aware of Yoda's gimlet gaze following his perturbed wanderings, of the ancient master's expectant silence.

"I don't know, master."

"Hmmph. Know you do." Yoda's ears quirked, and his chin tilted upward imperiously. He now looked at his younger counterpart down the length of his very stunted nose. "Too early in the morning is it to pester me with _I know not, master."_

Obi Wan stopped and stared, and then hid his dismay behind one hand, brushing the short hairs of his beard into place. "Forgive, me. I…I do have a hypothesis."

The old one waved a clawed hand. "Tell me, you will."

He gathered his thoughts. "The Force is indeed speaking to me. But in a way I am not accustomed to - and so I haven't mastered my own innate mental response. I fail to acheive a calm center, and thus when I contemplate the will of the living Force, I color it with my own memory and imagination. I am simply seeing the truth through a lens of my own desire and ...well, attachments."

Yoda nodded. "Clever you are, Obi Wan. Always a possibility you find."

"I think it's the truth, master. What else could explain it?"

"Truth," Yoda mused. "Hmmmmm." He rested his hands on his worn trousers' knees. "Truth. Too much for Master Yoda is that. Too early do you come, Obi Wan."

He knelt. "Master, what should I do?"

The old Jedi made a horrible face at him. "The Force: it tells you to go to Rhellis Massa. And you ask _me _ what it is you should do?"

"No. I simply mean – how can I trust these perceptions when I may be half-incubating them myself? Where does the Force begin and my own delusions end? Isn't that playing a dangerous game? Clearly I have muddled up some true perception with my own fancies. Oughtn't I to try to purge those first?"

Yoda groaned and slipped off the cushion. "Tea I require. Brood so early, do you always? Not healthy is it." He grumbled and snuffed his way to his inner chamber. Soon enough the clink of ceramic could be heard, and the aroma of dried tea leaves scented the warm air.

Obi Wan waited for him to return. Did he brood too much? He turned the question over in his mind carefully, examining its various implications – and then stopped himself with a wry smile. Ah. Yes.

Yoda shuffled back in, gracefully floating a small tea bowl into his guest's hands without spilling a single drop. The surface of the dark liquid wasn't even ruffled. Specks of dried herb spun lazily in its depths,and steam rose from the amber pool in a leisurely coil. "Hm. Truth, Obi Wan. Drink. Ask not what kind this is, whether tainted it is, whether poison I have put in it, whether a trick this is."

He held the cup, and blinked. "I would never think those things, master! I trust you."

Yoda's eyes widened in triumph. "Then _trust_ also the Force, you should. Ask not so many questions."

It took him a moment to regain his wits. Yoda's eyes gleamed in satisfaction. After a moment, Obi Wan dipped his head in acknowledgment and drank.

The ancient master chuckled throatily. "Meditate on this, I will," he promised. "For now, rest and recover you should."

"Of course, master. Thank you."

* * *

><p>Anakin had promised Yoda to stick close to Obi Wan. And the latter had promised Yoda that he would rest. So naturally they decided to indulge in some restorative down-time together.<p>

In the dojo.

Anakin busily unpacked the high-accuracy training droids from their protective cases. "How many?" he asked. "Half a dozen?"

"Against two?" Obi Wan raised his eyebrows. "Those are horrible odds. A dozen at least. Poor things should have a fighting chance."

"Good point." He released every last one of the remotes into the air and fiddled with the control. "Hm. Full power, master. Hopefully you'll get hit. In the backside."

"And why would you wish additional injuries upon me? I was a pathetic cripple not so long ago."

Anakin unclipped his saber and flipped it over in his hand, relishing the heft of it, the perfect weight and shape of the hilt. "'Cause maybe you'll see the wisdom of wearing armor on the battlefield. See? This is gonna be like a major ambush. A little protection could go a long way."

Obi Wan dismissed this with a wave. "Nonsense. That," he decided, unclipping his own weapon, "Is the sophomoric perspective of one who relies on power and aggression rather than _accuracy."_

"Oh no," the younger Jedi groaned. "Not another lecture on the virtues of Soresu."

"I wouldn't presume to bore you with something so far outside the limited scope of your sophistication," Obi Wan drawled, flicking his blade into life. The brilliant blue saber hummed low and sonorously. He flourished it in a jaunty circle.

Anakin followed suit. The room was filled with a harmonic duo of low tones. The droids at the ceiling began to circle warily, targeting lights locking on. The Jedi moved into a back-to-back stance, weapons held lightly in guard position.

"I'll limit _your_ scope, Master Eye-of-the-Kriffing-Storm."

The first shot rebounded off Anakin's blade. The remotes moved closer, fanned out into an advanced attack pattern.

"I see your vocabulary is as crude as your defensive skills." Two more shots arced toward them; Obi Wan deflected them neatly into a third droid which had been making a stealth approach on Anakin's right.

"Hey! That one was mine!" Anakin's saber blurred as he parried the next dozen shots. He felt Obi Wan moving in effortless synchrony with him. One of the remotes took a direct hit and careened into the wall, dead. The others withdrew, regrouped.

"You wouldn't stand a chance without me covering your back, master."

"Is that a _challenge?"_

"Take it how you like."

Another concerted assault interrupted their exchange. The droids broke into four groups, zoomed forward, randomly changed direction and speed, and let loose with everything they had. A hailstorm of red bolts closed around the Jedi. Two blue blades swept and howled in a perfectly united dance; hot projectiles slammed into floorboards, walls, ceiling, their originators. A few more remotes clattered to the floor. The sabers thrummed to a cautious standstill.

"I'll take it as an opportunity to prove my point. A Jedi does not require _armor_ to avoid injury. "

"You're on." Anakin abruptly rolled beneath the next onslaught, leaving Obi Wan to single-handedly block a flurry of shots. Somehow he managed it, though, picking up the last three with an over-the-shoulder parry followed by a brilliant sweeping defensive arc that sent another droid spiraling into a wall, deactivated.

Two or three remotes went after Anakin, but he Force-pushed them across the wide room and then called the control device into his hand. A few quick adjustments, and the whole posse was back on Obi Wan. He even reactivated the fallen members of the attack force. Just to be fair. This was _supposed _ to be a battle simulation, after all.

"In the name of -!" Obi Wan snarled, realizing that his treacherous former Padawan had stranded him in the middle of the salon with fifteen separately programmed foes.

"Accuracy, master! Not power and aggression!" Anakin called out merrily.

It was a good show. Anakin wasn't much of a Soresu fan, himself. He was a practitioner of the less defensive, more forward-thinking saber forms. But Obi Wan was a master of his art, and had even developed a personalized variant on the pure form. His style had echoes of Ataru in it – his favored fighting style before old age set in, Anakin supposed – and a flashy _edge_ to the basic moves, a kind of sass-a-brass showmanship.

Twelve of the droids went down in quick succession, all victims of their own blasts. Obi Wan moved fast, minimally, saber angling, shifting, staying close to his body, repelling every attempt to breach his defensive sphere. The last three droids got smart and spread out, firing on him simultaneously in three directions. He jumped over one attack, executing a tight backflip in midair as his opponents blasted each other squarely.

"Cheating!" Anakin yelled, in his role as referee. "That was Ataru!"

"Really." Obi Wan circled, the last droid circled. Anakin shifted his weight, waited for the grand finale. The droid let off a dizzying series of blasts, which Obi Wan batted away, retreating steadily toward a wall, grunting with the effort. The droid advanced, spitting fire in a continuous stream. It whizzed backward, repulsor growling. Obi Wan _turned his back on it, _ smirking – and it fired.

The shot ricocheted off the Jedi's suddenly inverted saber blade, hit the near wall, and bounced straight into Anakin's backside.

Obi Wan spun and slammed the next three bolts directly into the droid, sending it smashing to the floor.

"OW!" Anakin spat out, clutching his scorched posterior with one hand.

"_Soresu,"_ Obi Wan told him blithely, with a tiny shrug of the shoulders. He looped his blade in an oh-so-smug flourish and deactivated it, clipping it at his belt with actinic precision.

"Kriff your kriffing uppity Soresu attitude," Anakin snarled, rubbing at his left buttock with one hand and trying not to laugh.

Master Obi Wan was losing the same battle. "And that, Master Skywalker, is why we do not require _armor_ on the battlefield. The Force is a powerful ally, and we need no other."

"Stow it," his friend gritted out between his teeth. "_Boshoodah._. I'm gonna have to see the _healers, _you barve."

"You don't stand a chance without me to cover your backside, Anakin."

"You know what you are, master, right? You're a –"

His rant was interrupted by the sudden arrival of Master Yoda. The diminutive Jedi thumped his way through the open archway and across the polished floor, cane tapping an irregular rhythm against the hard wood. His eyes slid this way and that, taking in the cybernetic carnage, the powered-down remotes littering the dojo's confines.

"Hm," he remarked, coming to a halt before them and peering upward with slatted green-gold eyes. "Master Kenobi. Skywalker. Entertaining yourselves, I see."

"Improving our defensive techniques, master," Obi Wan bowed. "Anakin was pointing out some small deficiencies in my form, which I hope have now been corrected to his satisfaction."

Yoda's gaze plunged straight through Anakin and out the other side. His ears twitched. "Sit," he commanded, both hands curled about the top of his stick.

The tiny smile compressing the corners of Obi Wan's mouth was as provoking as a fiendish grin in anyone else, but Anakin was a Jedi _Knight,_ and the Chosen One to boot. He sat right alongside his former mentor, and he didn't betray a flicker of discomfort, either. "You need to speak with us, master?"

"Meditated on your question, I have. Mission, there is for you," the ancient Jedi rasped.

Anakin glanced sideways. A mission, so soon after the last engagement? Obi Wan was barely healed…. But war waited for no man. "Another campaign?" he inquired.

Nearly on eye level with Yoda, he could see the old teacher's subtly striated eyes clearly. They were lit with a warm radiance. "Not a campaign. No. Master Kenobi. Obey the prompting of the Force, you should. To Rhellis Massa go, and discover what it is that you must do."

Obi Wan's face was grave. Anakin suppresed another shudder. Why did he have such a bad feeling about a place he'd never been?

"Take Skywalker with you, you wil. And squadron of clones."

"I thought I was to _trust_ in the Force, master," Obi Wan objected mildly.

Yoda grunted. "Trust the Force, I do. Trust Dooku - I do not." He tapped his stick against the floor. "Return safely," he commanded. He pinned each of them with his cryptic gaze for another moment and then hobbled away, leaving them kneeling side by side and wondering what lay in store ahead.

* * *

><p><em>And now, dear patient readers, a short intermission while the muse is out of town for a long weekend. The adventure will commence - and the bickering continue unabated - on Tuesday morning, 410/12._


	6. Chapter 6

**Fallout**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 6<strong>

The Republic's wartime beaurocratic machinations could easily try even Jedi patience; which is why Anakin nobly volunteered to personally oversee the requisitions and transport arrangements. Allowing Master Obi Wan to handle the inevitable entanglements with the Grand Army commissioning officers, the Senate Defense Committee, and the military finance people would only result in headaches all around: a headache for the Jedi master in question, a worse headache for all the officials who would have been victims of both his subtle manipulations and subtler wit, and the worst headache of all for Anakin, who would have had to endure another scathing and articulate lecture on the follies and foibles of politicians past, present, and future.

He decided to do his duty as a Jedi and reduce the overall amount of suffering in the galaxy by sparing his former master the odious task altogether. Besides, he didn't find the unwarranted multiplication of rules, regulations and rigamarole problematic in the least. Most Jedi looked upon their newfound military roles with mingled suspicion and hesitance. The Grand Army was technically under the supervision of the Republic, not the Order; and yet the Army was in some degree at the disposal of the Council; the Order was technically independent of the Senate, but still sworn to uphold its ideals and mandates…and that seemed now to extend to warmongering. It was a difficult position for any traditional Jedi. This tangled knot of interdependence, in which there was no clear ultimate authority and no clear delineation of ultimate principle, was as far as possible from Temple culture as could be imagined. In that way of life, the _Jedi_ way, certain things were determined rigidly in a millenia-old hierarchy of discipline and submission, while the sum remainder was expected to be handled with complete independence and responsibility by the Order's individual members. It was a near-impossible balancing act of freedom and authority, but it was not messy or unclear. The expectations and the stakes were spelled out with alarming lucidity, and one simply walked this perilous path without looking down, so to speak. After all, there is only do or do not, no _try._

Anakin, by contrast to his peers and elders – most of whom found military life and the complexities of political interference distasteful, suffered no such offense to his ingrained sensibilities. Though he had been a Jedi for over a decade now, nothing could obliterate the lessons of early childhood as a slave on a Hutt-controlled backworld. On a Hutt world you didn't worry much about things like beaurocracy or teasing out the personal ramifications of conscience and obligation. You just figured out who to bribe or intimidate in order to get what you needed, and got on with your business. Anakin had a feeling he would do just fine as a General and wartime hero, and not just because he was the best pilot in the entire Republic fleet. He knew how to get results. And the Supreme Chancellor was his own personal friend.

In this case the results he obtained were far in excess of expectations. The specified squadron of clones grew in number to a full division, replete with all the radiation and survival equipment deemed necessary to survive an extended reconnaissance on the hostile world's surface, as well as a light frigate large enough to transport crew, cargo, and two Delta-class Jedi starfighters in its spacious hold.

Obi Wan's only remark as he ascended the boarding ramp of their fully-equipped vessel had been, "I see you've overdone it once again, Anakin."

"Whatever you say, master," the young Jedi muttered to himself now – almost a whole day into their lengthy hyperspace jaunt – as he lay in an awkward, cramped position beneath the open stabilizer array of his Delta. He called a microspanner into his hand with the Force and made another adjustment strictly discouraged by the manufacturer's manual. He had to do these sorts of things when nobody was looking, and of course he had ordered Artoo to delete the relevant sections from the shipboard database copy, just in case.

He tweaked the components to his own exacting standards and then scooted across the decks until he had taken up a similar position beneath Obi Wan's assigned fighter. The red-domed astromech nestled in its droid socket snapped out of stand-by mode and burbled something at him in consternation.

"Relax, I'm just giving her a little tune up," he assured the dubious navigator.

Artoo – smugly ensconced in his own place aboard Anakin's fighter - whistled some sarcastic nonsense about the last time his overenthusiastic master had made unsolicited alterations to Obi Wan's ship.

"That wasn't my fault," the young Jedi grumbled, tinkering diligently away at the second fighter's stabilizers. "He took it off the docking pad before I was finished."

The other astromech bleeped in dismay while Artoo made a sound disturbingly similar to a humanoid raspberry.

"You two –" Anakin tugged at the last recalcitrant bit of circuitry – "are gonna have to" – he yanked the safety override out of its moorings – "_trust_ me." He slammed the access panel shut.

He slid out from beneath the Delta's starboard wing and flipped back onto his feet. He'd meant to do that long before now, during their brief few days of respite at the Temple, but he'd been preoccupied with the design and manufacture of battle armor.

Speaking of armor, two clones assigned to hangar duty were watching the proceedings from the opposite end of the deck, hanging back out of the way, trying to appear nonchalant behind their faceless helmets. But Anakin could easily sense their fascination and tumbling curiosity in the Force. He ddin't recognize either one of them, and the brand-spanking-new sheen of their kit marked them as "shinies", members of a recent-issue batch straight from Kamino, assigned to this regiment as their first tour of duty. He decided to take the initiative.

"At ease," he barked out as he strode across the hold, causing the pair of identical troopers to jolt into ram-rod perfect salutes.

Their posture relaxed marginally, and they removed their helmets in unison, revealing one shaven and one close-cropped head, two pair of identical eyes, two identical noses, two identical mouths and two identical expressions of surprise. Anakin's first absurd thought was, _they're twins!_

"General Skywalker," the bald soldier addressed him, not quite daring to make eye contact. "CT 140404, sir. It's an honor to serve under you, sir."

Anakin wondered if the phrase had been genetically programmed in with all the other clone character traits. He didn't want adulation that was hard-wired into somebody's chromosomes…but maybe that was more of a behavioral conditioning thing? In either case, he preferred dealing with other people, not numbers. "You have a nickname?"

CT 140404 cast a startled glance at his twin and then cleared his throat. "Yes, sir, General. My brothers call me Oafer. Uh…not 'cause I'm a slacker, sir, see, it's Oh-Four-Oh-Four, and ah…"

"I get it, trooper."

"Sir yes sir." Oafer covered his confusion with another smart salute.

"How 'bout you?" Anakin turned his attention to the other clone.

The poor fellow blanched visibly beneath his olive skin. "Uh, with respect sir, they call me Gripes, but –"

"Not cause you're a whiner?"

The rookie froze in place, so appalled at this turn of conversation that he seemed glued to the spot. Anakin made a circuitous appraisal of the two clones. They kept their eyes forward, only a twitching vein here and there and a flutter of distinct apprehension in the Force betraying their mixed emotions about the silent inspection. Their discomfort might have been greatly alleviated by the knowledge that it was not their persons, but their _armor, _ that accounted for their commanding officer's acute scrutiny.

"Right," the Jedi said after pacing around them a few times. "I need an honest answer here. Is all that plating comfortable? I mean, down here – below the belt?"

The poor clones appeared to simultaneously choke on their next swallow. When he had recovered his breath, Oafer saluted yet again, face fixed in martial impassivity. "With respect, sir, protection in a combat situation is the first priority. Our gear was based on Mandalorian prototypes in consultation with the great Jango Fett himself."

Mando, huh? He'd forgotten that bit of trivia. Idly, Anakin wondered whether that would count as a pro or a con in his former master's estimation. Should he point out to Obi Wan that even fearsome Mandalorian commandos decked themselves out in full armor…or would that fact weigh against him? He wasn't really sure how Obi Wan felt about Mandos in general. He always changed the subject when the infamous planetary system was mentioned in conversation. The young Jedi wavered between the two perspectives for a long moment.

Then Gripes spoke up again, visibly warming to the young Jedi, and emboldened by Oafer's response. "That's right, General," he put in. "Besides, as our drill sergeant back on Kamino always said, _Better smashed than thrashed_, if you know what I mean, sir."

Anakin released a sigh. That settled it beyond a shadow of a doubt. There was _no way_ Obi Wan would ever agree to don full-body armor. And in light of Gripes' frank revelation, he really couldn't bring himself to disagree. The compromise plan was the only way.

"Thank you. That's useful to know," he replied blandly.

"Ah..sir?" Gripes dared to stretch the bounds of protocol. "If you don't mind, sir, we were just wondering."

"Yes?" Anakin folded his hands behind him, rocked back on his heels a little.

The clones exchanged a swift glance, and then Oafer ploughed onward. "We know mission details are classified, sir, but we couldn't help noticing all the radiation equipment. "

"Our destination is registered as a level three exposure hazard environment," the young Jedi informed them coolly. "Best to be prepared."

"Yes sir. Oafer'n me've never been deployed before, sir," Gripes continued, still beating around the edges of his true meaning.

Anakin got his drift. "I don't leave men behind, and I don't' consider anyone _expendable,"_ he told them, a fierce note in his voice.

They saluted, silent but grateful.

"I'd appreciate it if you'd pass that on to the other men."

"We will, General Skywalker. Thank you."

He exited the hangar bay, feeling very pleased with the exchange of information and advice, and went to find Obi Wan.

* * *

><p>Obi Wan shut down the compact datareader just as Anakin entered the frigate's small work-station deck, the only place currently unoccupied by its ubiquitous clone crewmembers. His perusal of high-clearance files on Sen Sen Xerxes had left him with more questions than ever; the deeper he delved, the more inexplicable this mission became. And <em>he<em> was the one in charge. Wryly, he wondered whether this were his first significant lesson in military command: the higher up in the ranks, the less anyone really knew. That was an old soldiering aphorism, was it not? And in light of that common wisdom, shouldn't he – and the Jedi Order as a whole – be perturbed by their instant elevation to the exalted status of Generals?

It was worth brooding upon.

"You've got that imminent lecture look again," Anakin quipped, perching on the edge of a workbench built into the bulkheads.

"I shan't inflict my wisdom on you. _Pearls before rhugga-swine, _ and all that." He shoved the reader back into its belt pouch. "Besides, the more I discover about Master Xerxes, the less insight I have to offer."

"I thought you'd trawled through all that stuff three times already?" Anakin frowned.

Obi Wan smoothed his beard. "I managed to upload some restricted access files from the Archives before we departed."

Anakin's spine straightened visibly. "How'd you manage that? Don't tell me you pulled a mind trick on Madame Nu!"

Some harrowing experiences were rendered humorous by passing time. He smiled. "Believe me, Anakin. I tried that once – when I was _much_ younger – and I can safely promise you never to attempt such utter folly again."

The younger Jedi grinned impertinently. "How I'd love to hear that story."

"I'm sure you would," Obi Wan agreed, offering no further details.

"You still haven't answered my question, master. How'd you get access to Council-only records?"

"Master Yoda authorized an exception due to unusual circumstances."

He crossed his arms and watched the predictable procession of emotions flash across his former Padawan's face: shock, outrage, envy, suspicion, grudging acceptance. Anakin would do well to remember that he was not the only one with friends in high places. Obi Wan only wished that the Council would find the boy (young man) worthy of the same trust; or perhaps he wished that his Padawan (former) would prove himself worthy of that trust. Resentment and ambition sometimes coalesced into an armor about Anakin's heart, a dark shielding that obscured his inborn light. Obi Wan feared that it would someday harden until it stood between them, an impassable wall. He swept the pang of worry away with a small effort.

"You're brooding again," Anakin scolded him.

"From your point of view, Master Skywalker. Some of us simply prefer to _think_ before rushing headlong into the unknown."

"You just admitted that wasn't doing you any good, but suit yourself," Anakin shrugged. "So what did you find out about Sen Sen Xerxes that's got you so strung out?"

Some forms of impudence were best ignored. "The Council at that time gave him permission to pursue some rather…outre…research projects," he said, cautiously. "He was quite the eccentric scholar."

"Weird interests, huh? Like what?"

Aware that the files he had read were restricted, Obi Wan trod a thin line between evasion and indiscretion. He waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, end-of-the-age prophecies, ancient doctrines of immortality, that sort of thing."

Anakin quickly lost interest. "So he was a kooky old barve. What's that got to do with Rhellis Massa?"

"Well. Do you remember the name of the last transport to leave Rhellis Massa before space transit was cut off and the civil war escalated into disaster? The last evacuation ship?"

The young Jedi puzzled over this for a moment, ransacking memory as though he were once again a green Padawan assigned a difficult exercise in fact analysis. "Uh…the _Orbitron?_…_Loop-de-Loo?…_ no, wait a minute. The _Elliptic._ That's it."

Obi Wan nodded, frowning. "The ship Sen Sen Xerxes took from Coruscant to Wild Space when he last departed the Temple was the very same. Of course, there were 23 standard years intervening, but I checked over all the mission transport records during that time and the _Elliptic_ was never reassigned or returned to dry dock for maintenance."

"Proves nothing," Ankin snorted.

"I agree."

But they both knew that logic aside, this fact was significant. Instinct told them so.

Ankin stood impatiently. "So there might be some connection. I stil don't know what good picking through a bunch of nuked rubble more than a century later is gonna accomplish."

"Nor do I. But it seems to be the will of the Force." He didn't meet the young Jedi's worried gaze. He did not wish Anakin to see the doubt sending up its first seedling shoots in his own mind.

A moment later, both their heads turned toward the bridge.

"It looks as though we've arrived."

The deck lurched gently beneath them as the frigate reverted from hyperspace, a minute after the Force's warning. The passed through to the bridge, where Commander Cody and a small contingent of clones manned the helm and nav stations.

"We've just entered the inner system boundary, Generals," Cody informed the Jedi. "We're running proximity scanners now."

"There's an unidentified vessel standing off the third planet's moon, sir," the clone at the scanner station reported.

"Separatists," Anakin growled.

"I can't pick up any transponder beacon or identifying marks at this range, sir," the trooper responded.

"It's Dooku's ship," the young Jedi insisted. "I can feel it."

Cody glanced at the senior Jedi for confirmation and received a terse nod of the head in reply.

"Keep the star between that ship and ours," Obi Wan ordered. "Hopefully they weren't running active scanners when we arrived."

The drives thrummed beneath them as the frigate changed position, edging along Rhellis Massa's orbital path on sublights until they stood well opposite the unknown vessel, and still a safe distance away.

The clone pilot leaned back. "I'll keep her in position, General, so long as they stay put."

"Good. Anakin. We're going to have to make a reconnaissance run in the fighters. Anything bigger or slower will attract too much attention.."

"Fine by me," the cocky young Knight smirked. "You like stealth and I like fast. We'll both be happy. Last one to the hangar is an old maid."


	7. Chapter 7

**Fallout**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 7<strong>

Anakin was the first one on deck. In fact, he was sitting in his Delta's cockpit, all systems online and ready, when Obi Wan finally appeared through the interior doors, eyes bright with vexation, a thin furrow of distaste between his brows, and a subtle but definite crimp in his customary swagger.

Anakin tried (there is no try) to keep a straight face. "It's not _that_ uncomfortable, master. It just takes some getting used to." He absentmindedly tugged at the black micromesh covering his own person, pulled his tunics back into place over the flexible energy-dispersal suit. The innovative material also doubled as radiation protection, an absolute must-have on the ravaged surface of Rhellis Massa. "And it's a heck of a lot better than the usual biohazard monkey-lizard-suit."

"True enough," Obi Wan grumped amicably as he stepped onto his fighter's wing and slipped down into the cockpit. His astromech whistled a melodic greeting and swiveled its dome as he quickly brought the ship's systems online.

"I tossed your helmet in there," Anakin added, closing his canopy before his friend could offer any comment.

Through the soundproof transparisteel he could still see Obi Wan glance down at his feet as though somebody had deposited a stinking womprat carcass in the limited storage space there.

A moment later the ship-to-ship comm kicked in. "…little point trying to avoid brain damage." The Jedi master's voice came in clearly over the headset.

Anakin grinned, lifted his fighter off the deck on repulsors, signaled for the bay doors to open. "What are you talking about, master? Flying is a highly intellectual endeavor."

The massive panels parted, revealing endless star-spangled night beyond. "If flying is a mental game, Anakin, then you must be in a perpetual coma." And just like that, Obi Wan shot out of the hangar ahead of his young counterpart, speeding out of the bay and even flipping his fighter over once, in what amounted to a mild taunt.

Anakin's answering bark of laughter was lost in Artoo's exhilarated scream as they streaked in hot pursuit, corkscrewing past the hangar doors and plunging wildly into glorious open space, intoxicating freedom.

They cruised – at a blazing, frictionless speed, their tiny craft continually accelerating through the void, the engines which comprised half the fighters' weight not even breaking a metaphorical sweat – along the orbital path calculated by their nav computers. Curving around the star side-by-side, it was easy to forget that war had engulfed the galaxy, that duty anchored them to other planes and spheres, that this beautiful feeling of soaring through the limitless field of stars with elegant power beneath him and his best friend, his _brother,_ by his side, would ever end. For a moment he even forgot about Padme, about home. Flying, Anakin was so close to the Force that he outstripped even his fear and attachments.

"What's that?" Obi Wan snapped over the comm..

Anakin peered ahead, to where a glimmering diaspora swarmed toward them, a distant dust cloud of menace drawing rapidly closer as they streaked along their trajectory. "Uh… not a choir of Iegan angels, master."

"Hm. Animal, vegetable, or mineral?"

"Nasty, whatever they are." The Force's strident warning shrilled fiercely in both their veins. There was no need to point this out; they were yoked together in its Light.

"Let's take a detour." Obi Wan abruptly veered off course, diving inside the curve of their initial flight and sweeping into a skewing, irregular loop which carried them well inside the gravity-driven centrifuge of the star.

The odd miasma of silver objects re-grouped and began altering their own course.

"Definitely not inanimate," Anakin muttered, noting this self-correcting feature.

"And self-powered," Obi Wan added, as the swarm approached, pushing inward toward them, against the current of the solar winds, upstream in the river of radiant energy pouring off the star. Only spacecraft did that; even nebula-dwellers and other weird phenomena did not violate the laws of physics so egregiously.

"So…. accuracy or power?" Anakin politely inquired. "Mind you, I don't _fly_ Soresu."

"I don't think we need enter the aggressive negotiation stage yet, Anakin. We have the advantage of speed."

"Run away?" the young Jedi scoffed. "I don't' run away, either."

"Think of it as podracing." Before Anakin could muster a retort, Obi Wan's Delta had surged forward – on _full thrusters_, no less – in a straight drive for the distant and just-now-visible orb of Rhellis Massa.

The young Knight snorted. He might still be branded like a nerf from his last unfortunate contest with Obi Wan in the dojo; but this was a whole other arena. In the realm of piloting, there was no possible question who was the master. That would be Master _Skywalker_, thank you very much.

He opened the throttle so wide that the resulting breakaway set Artoo's head to spinning in place, and the Delta's drives trying to buck free of the featherweight chassis. Anakin held the ship together with the Force through the initial acceleration, not quite trusting the bolts and welding. His little surgical operation on the stabilizers – a quick excision of a few cumbersome safety overrides – had made this glorious feat possible. His forward charge felt like a jump into hyperspace.

He gained on Obi Wan so fast that within seconds he was pretty much right up his tailpipe and still coming on strong. He felt his friend's jolt of alarm as a bright flash in the Force. "Get outta my way, old man," he threatened, grinning ear to ear, "Or I'll have to ride your rump all the way down to the surface."

"Anakin!"

Obi Wan was blissfully unaware of his own ship's improved capability. Anakin's smile stayed plastered on his face. "This is a _race,_ master. Not afternoon promenade at the old folks' home."

R4 decided to join the fun; he bleeped something rude over the droid interface. Artoo replied in kind – only in a much crasser vein, because Anakin had stripped off some of his astromech's overrides, too.

"For the love of… Anakin, I'm at maximum thrust, and you're practically _on top of me!"_

It was difficult not to chuckle over the comm. Obi Wan really, really hated flying. "Just close your eyes and think of the Force, master!"

"_Anakin!"_

Self control abandoned with all pretense of respect, Anakin finally laughed aloud, whooping gleefully as he clipped his fighter right over his mentor's, barely clearing the cockpit canopy before dropping down in front with an impudent waggle of his tail.

They sped onward – with Anakin in the much coveted alpha position – all the way to Rhellis Massa's vapor wreathed horizon, leaving the glinting swarm of pursuers far behind.

* * *

><p>Descending through the devastated planet's upper atmosphere was like falling slowly into a soft netherworld of nebulous light and diaphanous veils, funerary curtains drawn discreetly over a long-desiccated corpse. Reckless speed reduced to a cautious downward glide, the two starfighters pierced layer after layer of toxic, shifting vapor.<p>

Obi Wan kept an eye on the string of data scrolling across the Delta's active scanner display. "The atmosphere appears to be breathable, but those clouds promise nasty precipitation."

"Yeah… and did you look at those radiation levels?" Anakin replied over the comm..

"I'm trying not to," he muttered.

"So what were those things that followed us, do you suppose? Some kind of new probe droid?"

"Hunter-killers, more likely," Obi Wan decided. "An entire fleet of them. Dooku has finally succumbed the lure of raw power and opted for quantity over quality." He could hear Anakn's sharp hissing intake of breath at the mention of the Dark Jedi's name. Not enough months had passed since his maiming at Dooku's hands. Obi Wan felt a sympathetic twinge in his own shoulder and thigh, and swiftly changed the topic. "Let's try to find a settlement – or the remains of one. Most the major cities were located in the southern hemisphere at the time of the civil war."

"Right."

They plunged below the final drifting curtain of sickly yellow, into the diffuse ambience of late afternoon. The sun was a bleary eye smeared behind the tainted backdrop, its baleful gaze resting upon a dark shoreline and a harsh jutting of mountains, a citadel wall thrown up against invasion. They followed the dull glitter of dying light upon the chippy waters, the flickering finger pointing inland over the rocks beyond. Together they rose, skimmed over barren peaks, hungry valleys, naked plateaus, fighting the inevitable turbulence, silent as they drove their way inland.

The Force was heavy with echoes. For a moment Obi Wan thought the cabin atmospherics were faulty; he swallowed several times to ease the pressure building behind his eardrums, before he realized that it was a more primal Force-borne warning that he felt.

The mountains fell away.

His heart plummeted with his ship.

The Force howled in memorial, still resounding with a ghastly wound. Below them, sprawled like the grisly body of a fallen giant, the bones and crumbling armor of a vast city lay lifeless, bleached and dead beneath the shadow of the hills. Spreading like a flood of death, the gridwork of its architecture carved a solemn tracery over the barren earth. Here was nothing, emptiness, where once there had been millions of lives. He heard Anakin echo his own stifled gasp of pain. They both should be used to it, immune to it, able to withstand the initial shock. But they weren't. Perhaps they never would be.

_Keep going,_ a voice soundlessly whispered, borne to him within the heart of the Force's keening sigh.

"Are you all right, master?"

Anakin was perceptive, and he hadn't been shielding. His pulse gentled back into its wonted rhythm; he took a deep centering breath of the cockpit's scrubbed and 'cycled air. "Yes. We need to keep going. There is another city further on. The capitol, Rhe Bhattu."

Mercifully, the young Jedi did not ask how he knew this, why he was so insistent upon it. They soared over the shattered remnants of the first metropolis, the blasted out skeletons of its towers, the crumpled detritus of bridges, landing pads, pedestrian arcades. A gutted market. An ampitheater, weirdly intact, but no less scoured of life. Dust lay thickly, in mounds so great they were visible from this altitude. In all the dreary parade of decades, no life had yet made ingress upon the desolation.

Like a klaxon never silenced, the Force sounded a long wavering note of utter despair. The Dark coiled up off the fossil-city in heavy tendrils, claws rising to meet the tattered, poison-laden sky.

Obi Wan closed his eyes, narrowed his focus to the bright flame that was Anakin, to his own kindling hearthfire of Light, to the luminous connection between them. They sped onward, obedient to the mysterious command, each cocooned within his cockpit's bubble, each armored by his own hard-won control, yet hearts bleeding together into the mourning Force. There was a strange measure of peace in that, he thought.

Desert plains – agricultural land, once? – and a deep canyon scarred across the continent's face; then another undulating rise, more rumpled geological formations, a higher stretch of land rolling to the skirts of another mountain range. Nestled in the foothill's stony arms, a greater city, this one half-sheltered by a crushed protective dome, a delicate curve of durasteel and massive buttresses, torn asunder and rent into fragments like an eggshell. Beneath its gaping ribs, death sprawled in stark geometry: towers, tiers, arches, soaring cathedrals of emptiness, crumbling dust, petrified flowers rising amid a colossal snowdrift of black rubble.

"Set down… outside the dome," Obi Wan rasped out. The radiation gauge on his console was spewing nonsensically high numbers. His memory flashed back to that moment so many years ago when he had first taken Anakin's midichlorian count … he no longer believed in impossible measures. But this clear indication of danger was nothing compared to the hurricane of malice in the Force, an echo of death that had not faded with passing time. Here, in a world void of life, there was no other signature to blend, dull, absorb, join and remold it. The ultimate event in Rhellis Massa's planetary history remained inscribed perpetually in the Force like a doomsday epitaph etched in marble.

He set his fighter down in the shadow of this abomination and breathed out slowly. Anakin's ship landed nearby. Silence claimed them for a full minute. Even the astromechs were quiet, unmoving in their sockets.

But they had a job to do here. Pushing all emotion aside, he retrieved the helmet and pulled it down over his head, sighing distastefully. The clones' headwear had an inset comm.., and an array of other hypertrophied gadgets and displays built into the visor. It took him a moment to deactivate these distracting features. He almost took another deep breath, but then stopped, lip curling in disgust as the sensation of being muffled, smothered, walled in - _armored_ against reality.

He clambered over the Delta's wing and onto the dusty surface of Rhellis Massa. _Just wonderful._ Flying _and_ a helmet. Now all he needed was for Asaaj Ventress to show up, perhaps bearing a serving platter of freshly hatched live quanta worms on toast, and his perfect day would be complete.

"You're projecting some awfully weird images there. Master," Anakin grunted, stepping down off his own Delta's wing. The young Jedi's expression was completely masked by the obscuring clone helmet.

"Yes, well." He had no jest to offer. Not now, not in the presence of such… blasphemy.

They gazed at the ruins rising dark before them. The sun sank low on the horizon, lengthening both their shadows toward the blasted-out city like twin pathways, the legendary rivers running into the Nine Hells, beneath the Gates of Destiny.

"Now what?" Anakin asked.

Was there really any question? "Let's go," he said, leading the way. The broken portals of Rhe Bhattu gaped wide, marking their arrival with a fanfare of morbid silence.


	8. Chapter 8

**Fallout**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 8<strong>

Their boots left two solemn scars across the wind-blown sweep of dust piling in Rhe Bhattu's main thoroughfare. To left and right, forming a long canyon of ruins, the disintegrating walls of once mighty structures stood sentinel, watched them with thousands of blasted-out eye sockets: windows, doors, balcony arches, docking hatches. Anakin trudged doggedly along beside Obi Wan, as they processed down this central aisle for the inspection of the capitol's ghosts.

Not that Anakin believed in ghosts. He'd always enjoyed stories of them, back in the slave quarters on Tatooine – especially those about Ben Attur-Yavi, the Wizard of the Black Hills – but as a young child he had discovered soon enough that such dangerous frivolity and superstition was strictly frowned upon in the Temple. The other initiates had shunned him for days after his first attempt to regale them with a real hair-raiser, and only Obi Wan's timely intervention and diplomatic skill had restored him to his new peers' good graces. But now, walking through a city which was nothing but cemetery, its every monument and structure a mausoleum, its every paving block a gravestone, he was tempted to believe in the spirits of the dead. Whispers hung in the air, in the very Force.

It was as though a million voices had cried out at once – and been suddenly silenced.

And their final scream of terror preserved indelibly in this place, to seep into the bones of any who dared intrude upon its timeless lament.

"Master…?"

"I feel it, too." He could make out nothing of Obi Wan's expression behind the blank helmet visor, and he could feel very little of the other Jedi's thoughts or reactions. They had both tightened their mental shields into solid armor, protection against the onslaught. Had they not, _creepy_ would have been magnified to _tormenting._ They walked on.

The street eventually gave way to a ragged pile of slabs, what might once have been a grand ceremonial staircase. A great heap of rubble and twisted girders lay at the summit of this jumbled rise.

"This must have been the government building. Rhe Bhattu was one of the only places on the planet inhabited by members of both warring factions. It was declared a neutral zone toward the end of the war, but it was destroyed in the final confrontation." Obi Wan waved a gloved hand to the west. "I think the spaceport lies that way. Evacuation ships had been blocked weeks before the last bombings."

Anakin stared up at the littered remnants of the Rhellis Massan capitol, this place where many came together to create a fragile peace. It lay shattered as easily as a wine glass dropped to the hard floor; and he could not help but wonder if Coruscant's own fragile shell of political harmony might itself someday lay in similar fragments. The Republic was at war, for the first time in a thousand years. And this was the consummation of war, its ecstasy and its firstborn child.

"The people who were left behind never stood a chance," he muttered. "There was no way out. Even the ones who sued for peace. They got fried just the same."

There was a heartbeat's pause, a tiny lull in which the words hung like the ghosts of the past between them.

"But that does not invalidate their desires, or the rightness of their actions," Obi Wan said, a thread of challenge twisting in his voice, tautening the Force.

Anakin tasted bitterness on his tongue. Didn't it? "They should have _stopped_ this war before it got so far. Why didn't the Jedi involve themselves? This is abominable."

That was a hard question. He watched Obi Wan take a few more paces forward. _You can't walk away from that question, though, can you, master? It travels with us._ "I don't know," the older man said, at last. It was humble, and true, and …unsatisfying. Anakin pushed the question and the hardening pit in his stomach to the back of his attention.

"Well, what _do_ you know?" he asked instead. "You're supposed to be the leader here."

The taunt was delivered with just sufficient boldness to alleviate their melancholy. Obi Wan gladly rose to the bait, as a sinking man grasps at a piece of flotsam. "I'm glad you remember your place, Anakin."

"Yeah," the young Jedi snorted. "Always a step behind you – so I can haul your rear out of trouble when you _lead_ us into it."

Obi Wan turned his back and began clambering over the wrecked stairway. "I believe the trouble is generally of your making, my friend."

"What? What about that nest of gundarks on –"

"We are _not_ discussing gundarks, Anakin."

They climbed up the disorderly pile of cracked marble slabs, threading their way among their jutting angles, through the rivulets of cascading gray sand. "Fine. Who's the _chosski_ who almost got himself blown sky-high on Kaion?" Anakin riposted.

"_That_ was a technical difficulty," Obi Wan blithely replied. They reached the summit, and stood at the foot of the collapsed capitol building. Fallen and mangled statuary lay scattered at their feet, looming grotesquely out of the dull monotonic masonry. Half a sculpted face peered up at them, blank-eyed, to one side. "Lovely," the Jedi master added, sotto voce.

"Technical difficulty?" Anakin repeated slyly. "I thought the Force was our ally, and that we had no need of any other?"

"Well," Obi Wan shrugged. "With friends like you, I certainly _have_ no other."

"Ow, master. I'm wounded. Careful – emotionally abused youth like me take to crime and vandalism easily."

"Just don't touch my starfighter again," Obi Wan shot back. "And don't think your little stunt with the stabilizer override went unnoticed." He gazed up at the monstrous ruins, arms folded against his chest.

"What? How'd you –"

"I ordered R4 to notify me of any impending, ah, _technical difficulties."_

Anakin reeled backward a pace, at least on the inside. Damn. Obi Wan never played fair. He was on the point of defending his actions when a disturbance jolted through the already keening Force, jerking their attention skywards.

A meteor shower of silver blurs erupted on the far horizon, a silent and glowing carillon of descending lights, streaking through the upper atmosphere and just as quickly disappearing again behind the thick and sullen clouds. "Meteors?" Anakin guessed, although he knew already that these were not natural phenomena. The Force twisted yet further, ratcheting his tension up another infinitesimal notch.

Obi Wan's soft indrawn breath was audible over the helmet comm.. "No. We've been followed. You'd better tell the droids to move the ships."

"Better yet: I'll do it myself. Maybe I can find some high ground to take a macrobinocular scan. We need to know what we're dealing with here."

"Yes," the older Jedi agreed, somewhat reluctantly. "And why. I'll stay here. Report back as soon as you're able. Let's not risk contacting the frigate until we know what their comm interception capability is."

Anakin nodded in terse agreement. Yeah, that would be bad. Chances were the things following them were just recon units, sent to scout ahead. A transmission, and the tracking signal it established, might do more harm than good. He jogged his way back through the abandoned highways of the capitol, running the gauntlet of its long-dead ghosts, and headed back to the fighters. Whatever trouble was lurking on the horizon, he would take care of it.

* * *

><p>Left alone beneath the ruined government building's arched threshold, Obi Wan was keenly aware of his own presence – as though he were the sole island of life in an oceanic expanse of void and hollow memory. The Force lapped against his shores, laden with unwelcome recollection, frothing with present danger. He didn't need the helmet's deactivated tox scanning register to tell him that the world outside his fragile shell of armor was a poisonous soup of radiated particles, bomb effluvia still wafting in the dead air. He admitted to himself that the thin layer of mesh seemed a paltry protection against such excoriating destructive power; but a Jedi drew his strength – and his safety – from the Force itself.<p>

Still, when the first spattering droplets of acid rain rattled against his visor, he quickly moved into the broken shelter offered by the blasted walls of the ruins. Here, in the center of the building, had once stood a mighty domed chamber. Fragments of mosaic tile were visible among the heaps of rubble. Overhead, the rounded ceiling was punctured and fretted with massive cracks promising further disintegration at the slightest provocation. A caustic waterfall dribbled through the ragged skylight, pooled in an indentation worn deep by a century of similar downpours. He threaded his way around this column of glittering poison, eyes following the pattern of the supporting pillars. Beauty had transformed to unseemly nakedness, as though the radiation blast had stripped the skin and muscle off these bare bones of architecture, leaving a hot and skeletal corpse behind, just as it had instantly flayed every living body of its flesh and blood…

He closed his eyes, sank onto a chunk of masonry. _Focus._ Mental shields reinforced, again impenetrable, he sat and gazed at the scene, the tainted rainfall dripping through the roof. He armored his heart until he could feel nothing of this place at all, until he was Jedi only in name. The relief this provided was seductive, and welcome. He relished it, just for a moment. Who used such dirty weapons anymore? Even a century ago, atomics had been hopelessly outdated and primitive. Ion cannon, plasma beams, biospecific weaponry, disintegration and sonic disruptors – one had a wide variety of _advanced_ tools to choose from. Death could be meted out in so many ways… why choose this one? He would never know, of course. It was simply how history had played itself out. Perhaps some ambitious and unscrupulous entrepreneur had offered the two warring factions a discount on nuclear armaments, some leftover stockpile he could not unload on any other victims. Sales would have skyrocketed as both sides amassed supplies, escalating the unspoken threat to breaking point. The clever businessman likely had made a hefty profit and taken the first evacuation ship off world. That was how these things worked. He knew. Qui Gon had taught him young, and bitter experience had confirmed the lesson.

More disturbing than the theoretical charlatan of long-ago, however, was the very real and present appearance of Separatist scout droids, and the lurking warship in this same system. What was Dooku doing out here? There were no other remotely inhabitable planets circling Rhellis Massa's star, and this world was useless to either side of the galactic conflict. Wasn't it? Or would a radiation saturated world make an ideal base for a droid-operated outpost? But the system was not strategically located…and a single prowling cruiser suggested a more stealthy and sinister purpose. His instincts told him that he and Anakin had been _expected._ That the interlopers were morbidly curious about his intentions and doings here. And that was a highly unsettling thought, because the only people who knew of this mission were the Jedi Council and the Supreme Chancellor's office, both above reproach.

Had Dooku perhaps received a mysterious mandate from the Force itself, just as he had?

And what would that imply? That the voice speaking to him was Dark? It hadn't felt that way…not at all. Or that the Force was playing a dejarik game, with Jedi and Sith as its pawns? Was he the witless tool of some gladiatorial amusement arranged by high destiny? That was a despairing, and a _unworthy_ thought, one that spat in the face of Jedi doctrine. He pushed it aside, and snorted. If he was the victim of anything, it was surely a practical joke. For he still had no idea what in stars' name he was doing here, besides growing cold in the damp and the lengthening twilight shadows.

How he longed to rip the helmet off his head, so he could _breathe…_ but that was impossible.

"Brooding again," he chastised himself, and lowered his shields a trifle, abandoning the not-quite-blissful solitude in favor of painful reality. The echoes returned in full measure, but so did the strengthening Force; they came together here, and he should not complain of it. "I'm here. Now what?" he said aloud.

_Look deeper,_ the uninvited, unbidden voice spoke to him, out of the silence between the echoes, out of the space between thought and awareness.

Deeper? Had he not researched every possible scrap of information, every restricted access file, every tidbit of history imaginable? Had he not meditated on this day and night? What else was he to do?

Behind the echoes of horror in this place, there was the warmth of a deep chuckle. _The Living Force does not speak in such _ _riddles as the Unifying. I meant what I said._

Even the knowledge that it was his own imagination and emotions which colored and shaped this voice, that the peculiar timbre and pitch of it were entirely of his own fabrication, could not smother the pang of irritated longing. He supposed, vaguely, that he would do well to look deeper into the services of a mind healer when this mission was complete. Indeed, it was only Yoda's insistence that he simply trust and move forward that prevented him from abandoning the whole endeavor as the fruit of rarefied delusion.

_Obi Wan._

For Force's sake… it was just _too_ real, too convincing. It even _felt_ the same… He sighed.

_Look deeper._

And then in a flash of intuition, he blinked, and looked down at the rock jumbled beneath his feet. And wondered, for the first time since their arrival, what lay _under_ the surface of Rhellis Massa.

The Force seemed to smile in quiet approval.


	9. Chapter 9

**Fallout**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 9<strong>

Anakin set his fighter down on a convenient ledge of granite beneath the mountains' jagged skyline. Artoo whistled in annoyance as another shower of toxic precipitation pelted down on them, running in thick rivulets off the droid's dome and the Delta's slanted wings.

"Don't worry, buddy, we'll get you all polished up when we leave," the young Jedi promised his cybernetic companion. Inwardly he smiled. Artoo was a little _too_ proud of his gleaming blue chrome highlights; a bit of tarnishing might teach him a much needed lesson in humility. On the other hand, he couldn't really blame the little astromech. Handsome is as handsome does – that's what they said, and it was true.

He peered upward at the sharp silhouette of rocks above, and launched his cable high among them. The grappling end dug in with a satisfying crunch; a quick experimental tug on the line, and he was ascending rapidly to the distant edge, propelled by the retracting cable and a few powerful leaps off the hard cliff-face. At the summit he flattened himself against the wind-swept rock and fished out the clone-issue 'noculars, designed to fit over a helmet's rounded contours.

It took a few minutes to lock and focus, but when the scanning device did locate movement in the far distance, closer to the coast they had passed over earlier, his heart gave a small lurch. He could make out the crumpled ovoid forms of hard atmospheric pods – oversized escape capsules, almost – littering the floodplains east of the sea. From these, in steady trails fanning out over the intervening space, marched tiny glinting spheres of metal. They fanned out over the floodplain, descended the near side of the mountain in tangled threads, spread menacingly into the wastelands beyond. At such a distance, even with the macrobinocs on highest power, he could make out little more than fat disk-shaped bodies and a tangle beneath, which might be appendages or weaponry, or a mixture of both. Some hovered; others lumbered at a gait suggesting a crustacean's ambling crawl. Probe droids, or hunter-killers. In the _hundreds._

"_B__oshuda_," he spat. That was no recon mission. Nobody would waste resources on that scale, just to have a look-see. Dooku knew they were here. How, he couldn't begin to guess. But there was no doubt these little numbers had been sent expressly from the Separatist ranks: only Dooku and his minions could afford the Techno Union's exorbitant prices on avant garde murdering machines.

And you could bet your last lame eopie that these units had full comm. interception capability. Any signal they sent up to the waiting frigate would pinpoint their location quite nicely, and the host of seekers would certainly descend upon their prey before Cody could send in reinforcements. Assuming the Republic frigate could successfully move past the other warship lingering in the system.

He shoved the 'noculars back into their pouch and squinted through the dusking night air. To the naked eye, their robotic pursuers were invisible…but the Force carried a shivering current of warning to him, a cold draught amid the prickling of danger from the ambient radiation. Rhellis Massa was a pleasant place to vacation, that was for sure.

He slid back down his cable in one long rappelling motion, gloves protecting his palms from the damage this would otherwise inflict. His boots hit the dusty gravel at the cliff's base with a small thump. Artoo burbled mournfully.

"Yeah. A whole _lot_ of trouble," he answered the astromech's query. "There's an army of seeker droids down there, scouring this whole region. They'll find us sooner or later, unless Obi Wan has some brilliant way of making us completely disappear."

His mechanical co-pilot responded in a long series of whistles and bleeps, accenting his observations with a few snide remarks. Anakin climbed back into the cockpit, shut the canopy, and lifted the agile craft off the small ledge of rock.

"That did occur to me," he shot back. "It wouldn't be the first time he's led us straight into a trap. Like on Cordovia. Remember that?"

The droid made a very rude noise.

"It was _not_ my fault! You're full of poodoo, you know that?" He slammed the accelerators, and they shot forward, skimming low over the foothills and rapidly descending outside the broken dome of Rhe Bhattu.

Artoo's flippant sputter and blip of reply went unanswered by his companion. Anakin vaulted over the fighter's side and jogged toward the city gates. "Come on," he ordered over his shoulder. The blue and white droid jetted out of his navigator's socket and followed behind, rolling bumpily over the cracked pavement.

The city was cloaked in inky blackness. The few stars visible through the sickly pall of cloudcover gave no light; it was like navigating an asteroid field blindfolded. And in the heaviness of unremitting night, the echoes of the dead multiplied and swelled into a thunderous cacophony. Anakin gritted his teeth and pressed on. He discovered Obi Wan inside the blasted out capitol building, waiting for him expectantly.

"Well?" the Jedi master demanded.

"We've been in worse situations," Anakin informed him.

Obi Wan snorted. "That's poor consolation, my friend."

"True," the young Jedi shrugged. "There's well over a hundred new model hunter-seekers spreading out over the region – they had our entry vector well-marked. I'd say it's a matter of hours before they find us, and I'm sure Dooku has a sentinel fleet in orbit, too. I mean, he'd be stupid not to."

Obi Wan's hand went up to the base of his helmet, habitually, and then dropped away when it discovered that there was a wall of reinforced plasteel preventing any beard-stroking from happening. Anakin smirked behind the privacy of his own visor, although his expression, like the gesture itself, was felt in the Force rather than seen.

"Well," the older man decided. "What shall we do?"

Anakin grinned. He enjoyed their new equality, this easy discussion of options. "We could try strafing runs in the fighters- probably pick off half of 'em before they knew what hit 'em."

"And bring the orbital reinforcements down on our tails? No thank you. I don't suppose you have another scintillating idea?"

"Wait and fight it out on the ground. Plenty of cover 'round here. What's the worst that could happen?"

Obi Wan's silence was sufficient answer.

"Fine. You make the plan," Anakin abdicated all responsibility in the face of such obstreperous reluctance.

"We need more time. There is something else I need to look into here… a decoy to confuse the scouts would be ideal."

"So we'll send the droids out in the fighters. They can attract attention, keep moving, lead the probes on a wild bantha chase."

"That's asking a bit much of mere droids, Anakin, don't you think?"

Artoo's shrill whistle of affront cut through the inky air like a knife.

"Well, _your_ unit might be a bit dull-witted, master, but Artoo here has some pretty rugged evasive techniques down pat, don't you buddy?"

The astromech crooned in agreement.

"Very well," Obi Wan agreed. "Just don't scrap the fighters," he chided the droid. "We haven't any other means of _leaving_ this place."

It was a good thing Obi Wan didn't understand most droid-speak, because Artoo's guttural blorp and squeal did not constitute a polite reply. Anakin decided not to translate.

When the blue-domed astromech had scooted away on his stubby tripod, Obi Wan turned back to the deep interior of the gutted building. "Come with me," he said quietly. "I need your help."

* * *

><p>Obi Wan pushed onward through the smothering blackness. If ever there were a case of the blind leading the blind, this was it. A part of him wished that he had come alone; for surely it was unfair to drag Anakin into this weird adventure in which he had no clear goal or understanding of his own purpose ? Another part of him was almost childishly glad to have Anakin's company, for with darkness ahead, darkness pressing in on all sides, and darkness clamoring in the Force and hunting after them in the hundreds, the young Jedi's bright presence was like a reassuring beacon burning in a black storm.<p>

The hallways they traversed now were thick with memory; here many had died, suffocating beneath the fallen supports of the building above. As they burrowed deeper, into basement levels, ducking beneath fallen pillars, crawling through tiny gaps amid the rubble, sometimes widening the gaps themselves, he understood that they trod on sacred ground, disturbed the repose of memories and events which had dwelt here in silence for a century. The flitting shards of the past eddied and swirled in the Force around them, as dust that is stirred up by passing feet.

And then they reached the place. The dead end in the lowest basement, the wall where he had discovered and cut away a heavy blast door, only to reveal a shimmering ray shield protecting a second pressure-sealed hatchway. Against the dull red plane of this energy barrier, the still-glowing edges of the blast doors etched a perfect circle, an open mouth of surprise.

"How'd you know this was here?" Anakin managed at last, his helmet and dark tunics outlined in soft red radiance.

"The Force guided me…it's obviously the entrance to some sort of bomb shelter or bunker. We need to get through that shield."

"We do?" Anakin seemed dubious. "Why, master? What's on the other side? The corpses of a few idiots who decided to die the long, hard way instead of going out with a bang? That hasn't been breached in a century."

Frustration threatened to smother him, just as the close-fitting helmet did. "I don't know, Anakin," he sighed. "It's the will of the Force. That's all. I need to go through, down into whatever lies below."

The younger man hesitated another moment, crossed his arms in imitation of his companion's defensive posture. "So when _you_ decide to rush into the unknown, and justify it as the will of the Force, that's okay. But when _I _ do the same thing, it's reckless imprudence?"

Well, that was obvious. "Yes."

"Right. Glad we cleared that up," Anakin grumbled, unclipping his 'saber and advancing predatorily on the pulsing ray shield.

"Have you forgotten what happened last time you tried to cut through a ray sheild?"

Anakin cast an acid look over one shoulder, its meaning abundantly clear even behind the obscuring helmet visor. "And you never made a stupid mistake at ten years old."

"Besides attempting a mind trick on Madame Nu? Of course not."

"Uh huh." Anakin flicked the saber blade into life, angled it expertly against the energy barrier's pulsing surface. An arc of white light leapt between the plasma blade and the translucent crimson shield. There was a painful snap and sizzle. "Hm." He stepped back, mulling it over for a long minute. "Got it. You do exactly what I just did – create a disruption in the matrix with your saber blade, and I'll locate the control circuit."

"This had better work." He flicked his own 'saber into life and held the thrumming blade close to the shimmering barrier, until a shocking finger of fire snapped out of the red field, connecting with the blade's edge and sending a painful, shuddering jolt up his arm and shoulder. He grunted and held on. The tendril of white fire broadened to a crackling spiral, sweeping round the saber's length, sending up unearthly screeches, worse than two sabers clashing. Teeth clenched, he held the weapon steady, fighting a powerful magnetic current between the two energy sources.

"That's good…keep it up…" Anakin muttered, hands pressed against the stone and metal to one side of the ray shield.

Obi Wan swore under his breath as a tendril of white lightning flickered like a serpent's tongue and sizzled through his gloved hand. "I don't suppose you could _expedite_ the process, Anakin?"

"Patience, master. You can't rush genius."

The energy disruption striating between ray sheild and saber blade leapt and danced, tongues of glaring white whipping out like solar flares, arcing dangerously close. The air smelled of ozone, of hot metal. "Anakin…"

"Got it. I can feel it. It's right –"

The disruption peaked, whirled into a tight implosion of reverse-polarized ion particles, and wrenched the saber out of Obi Wan's hands, simultaneously diffusing into the cold air with a sudden release of kinetic power that sent him slamming backward into the far wall. Breath left his lungs and he sagged against the wall, called the hilt of his weapon back into his hand.

"It's straight through here," Anakin decided. "When the disruption peaked I could feel the generator feedback relay pulsing. We just need to cut through and fry it out, and the shields should drop."

"Carry on," Obi Wan grunted sardonically. "I wouldn't want to get in the way." He rubbed at his bruised ribs and examined his 'saber critically. So help him, if that last power surge had shorted out the power cell, he would do far worse than brand his former Padawan's rump in the dojo.

Anakin's saber plunged through the stone wall at a carefully calculated angle, filling the small space with the hot stink of molten rock. The power cell was not _fused, _ which was a good sign. Noise, as Anakin's assault on the wall reached metal on the far side. Obi Wan snapped the cell back in place, made a minor adjustment. Something cracked and exploded on the opposite side of the wall. Obi Wan's blue blade leapt into brilliant life. The ray shield fell away.

He flicked the 'saber off. "You're a _lucky_ man," he informed Anakin's back.

"There's no such thing as luck," the young Jedi smirked.

They gazed at the exposed pressure hatch together. A simple torque seal was set in the center of the convex metallic dome. A quick manipulation of the Force twisted the locking mechanism apasrt, and with a groan like some tormented soul from the underworld, and a hissing of warm air that buffeted them where they stood, the hatch swung open, bathing them in soft, radiant golden light.

"After you," they said in unison, and then stepped over the threshold side by side.


	10. Chapter 10

**Fallout**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 10<strong>

They stepped into a small, well-lit chamber, a blank convocation of walls filled with pale light, and fitted with exactly two identical hatches: the one through which they had entered, and another which lay directly ahead. Seams in the opposite wall suggested compartments hiding some sort of equipment; the gentle hum of a power generator threaded subliminally through the silence.

The two Jedi looked about themselves, and then at each other.

"It's an airlock," Anakin guessed. "Or a radiation lock, in this case."

Obi Wan nodded, swept the original hatch shut behind them with a dull clang, locked it again. The light flickered, the thrum of the generator altered slightly, and a long compartment to the left of the second door popped open with a small creak of disused and brittle plastoid.

A very antique model protocol droid stumbled out of the recess, arms twitching spasmodically, like a zombie newly risen from its grave. "Oh – ah- oh. Ahem. Yes. Er… welcome. This is a restricted zone. All those seeking entrance must be decontaminated and have proper authorization."

"We are authorized," Obi Wan assured the silver droid. Its flat optic plates turned upon him curiously, and its movements lost some of their jerkiness as its servos and motivators eased back into use after what had presumably been a century-long nap.

"You are authorized…by what governing body or agency?"

"The Jedi Council," Obi Wan replied nonchalantly. Anakin peered at the droid, to see if this declaration would bear any weight with it.

"The Jedi Council?" their robotic interloctor repeated, with the same affectation of startled incompetency that Threepio sometimes exhibited. "Why, you are more than authorized. You are _expected_."

Obi Wan's blank surprise spread in the Force, a fleeting twist of chagrin and alarm. "Personally?" The Jedi master asked, taken aback.

"Hm? Well, no, not specifically, if you will forgive me saying so, our comms have been disrupted for some time. But we fully expected a response to our distress signal within a month. Now, what is the standard date, please? I have been on standby and my chronometer circuit appears to have a malfunction."

Anakin cleared his throat. "Ah… I don't think it's a malfunction." He proceeded to tell the poor droid the exact date, eliciting a moan of distress and a great deal of hand waving.

"Oh my, oh stars above. I must say, you are not very punctual. Indeed, you are terribly overdue. One hundred eleven years, nine months, and sixteen point five-seven days standard reckoning, to be precise. It's quite rude, if you will excuse my opinion on the subject."

Anakin rolled his eyes at this, but Obi Wan took it in stride. He bowed to the droid. "We came as soon as we were able," he informed it placidly. "We apologize for the delay."

"Yes, well," the protocol unit sniffed, "I wouldn't know about such things. But you'll still have to be decontaminated, I suppose. The surface is radiation poisoned, and we need to maintain strict cleanliness here among the Friends."

"The Friends?"

Their metallic host looked at him as though he were a half-wit. "Why yes, young sir, the distress beacon did communicate the relevant details did it not?"

Obi Wan intervened again. "Excuse our ignorance," he said. "We are somewhat pressed for time. Perhaps we could effect the decontamination and proceed inside?"

The droid hemmed and hawed for a moment, and then shuffled over to the other compartment hatches. These, it was soon revealed, closeted a wide array of radiation scanners and other equipment for neutralizing unstable particles and emissions. The droid beckoned them over to this impromptu workstation. "Very well," it burbled. "Please remove your garments. They are a primary contamination risk factor. This chamber is registering negligible exposure levels at present."

"Thank the Force," Obi Wan muttered, yanking the unwelcome helmet off his head with an enthusiasm seldom exhibited by any full-ranking Jedi. A moment later he was happily divesting himself of boots, tunics, and the despised clone armor bodysuit. Anakin grinned and followed his example, adding to the impressive pile of clothing and gear upon the smooth floor. He stripped off his mechno-hand's protective glove last of all, dropping it on top of the heap and flexing the chromium-plated digits thoughtfully. Without the covering, the limb appeared cadaverous, skeletal and ghastly.

He felt Obi Wan's gaze on him, and looked up into rarely exhibited but genuine sympathy. Biting his lip, he fought back the howl of rage that welled within him every time he glimpsed the prosthetic armature beneath the glove. Geonosis was not far behind them; its shadow still reached for them sometimes. He could see the thin white scars on Obi Wan's arm and thigh, too – the places where Dooku's blade had scored two sharp and unforgiving lessons on the master's body before maiming his Padawan forever. Those scars would never disappear, in contrast to the newer, already nearly invisible ones left by Kaion.

Anakin looked away. "Now what?" he demanded of the droid.

"No military equipment or weapons are permitted in the Friends' domain," it informed them. "Are you carrying any such?"

The young Jedi glanced down at the 'saber clutched loosely in his mechanical hand. There was no way in the nine hells they were parting with their weapons. He would scrap this interfering droid before he relinquished his lightsaber. He shot a meaningful glare at Obi Wan, a warning not to cooperate. He had his limits, and this was not the time or place for diplomatic niceties.

His former master's eyebrows tweaked together, a curt reprimand. _No violence._

"Weapons including…?" the older Jedi prompted the droid.

"Any device with a hard blade, grenade, disruptor, vibroedge, trigger, blaster cartridge chamber, pulse generator, wire, or energy net matrix."

"Ah," Obi Wan smiled engagingly. "We only carry these tools, which do not fall under any of those prohibitions."

The droid peered at the 'saber hilt speculatively. "What is the precise function of this device?" it queried.

"To make light," the Jedi master replied diffidently.

"Light is permitted," their host decided. "You may retain these tools. Your other equipment and armor is prohibited, and your outer clothing and foot coverings are badly damaged by toxic preciputation."

It was true; even the thick nerfhide of their boots was scarred by the brief exposure to Rhellis Massa's corrosive rainfall. The droid hustled their possessions into a smaller compartment and shut the hatch with a click. "They will be returned to you upon your departure. The Friends will provide appropriate garments for you during your stay. This way please."

They were subjected to several scanners, to a brief spray-down with a slightly viscous substance, to a blood sample analysis. When the droid had satisfied itself that they had escaped the perils of the surface unscathed by radiation poisoning, he led them to the second hatch. "Beyond this door is a corridor with an inset rad-neutralizer. Please walk slowly through the energy field." It handed them two piles of neatly folded cloth encased in thin plastoid packages. "This is the customary garb of the Friends. Welcome, Jedi emissaries."

And with these cryptic words, it opened the hatchway and waved them inside the dark tunnel beyond. The Jedi exchanged a half-humorous, half-cynical look, and crossed the second threshold.

* * *

><p>"Did I just see you mind trick a <em>droid?"<em> Anakin asked as the hatch clanged shut behind them. "I can't believe he fell for that bantha-chizzk story about our 'sabers."

"Are you calling me a liar?" Obi Wan raised an eyebrow.

"Well…no…but, master! '_Their function is to make light.'_ You're shameless."

"Well, you _are _ the expert, so I suppose I must accept your judgement in the matter. Shall we?" Ahead, dimly illumining the short passageway, was a solid wall of sickly green light, a transparent film stretched from wall to wall. "That would be the neutralizer field." He tossed the packet of clothing through the shimmering wall, as an experiment. The edges of the barrier crackled slightly, but the plastoid bag made it through intact, and landed skidding on the far side.

Anakin's mouth twisted, and he threw his own package through the field with a disgusted flick of the wrist. "After you."

Shrugging, Obi Wan proceeded through the expanse of glimmering green. The energy field prickled uncomfortably across his exposed skin, lifted the hair off his head in crackling tufts, seemed to exert a mild resistance as he thrust his way through. On the other side, the air was markedly warmer, and smelled of something vaguely…floral?

Anakin emerged from the neutralizer field a moment later, shuddering visibly. "Uugh!" he complained. "_That_ was pleasant. So now what?"

"We..ah..blend in with the natives," Obi Wan decided, examining the garments provided by the droid. The standard garb of the Friends – whoever they might be – was nothing more than a heavy drape of cloth and a thick sash, both in a vibrant golden hue. After a few vexing minutes, he discovered that this odd costume was meant to be worn wrapped around the torso and over one shoulder. It fell to mid-calf and was fastened by the sash in much the same fashion as traditional Jedi tunics. His saber nestled between two folds of the makeshift belt. There were no shoes included.

Anakin was issuing a steady stream of imprecations under his breath. "How the kriffing hell does this piece of _kobunki poodoo_ work?" he snarled helplessly, half-tangled in the copious yardage. "This is the stupidest situation you've ever landed us in!"

It was difficult to suppress a grin at the sight of his former Padawan trapped in the folds of saffron cloth, but compassion must take precedence in a Jedi's life, so Obi Wan did his duty and extricated his surly companion from the predicament, deftly rearranging the offending garment into its proper configuration.

Anakin looked down at his new apparel with undisguised contempt. "This is a kriffing dress. Like Padme wears."

"It's a _robe,_ Anakin. And Senator Amidala wouldn't look half as lovely as you do in it." He patted the young Jedi's cheek and allowed his insouciant grin break through to the surface. "Besides… you were the one who was so keen on playing _fashion show_ not so long ago."

"You know what you are, master, right? You're a –"

"Shh."

They turned as one to the corridor beyond, where an unfamiliar rustling sound, as of scales dragging against stone, ruptured the heavy, perfumed silence of the warm air. The Force rippled ahead of this sound, in gentle waves, bearing the promise of power but no threat. The Jedi waited, fingers brushing against saber hilts but eyes and minds focused with singular curiosity upon the shadows beyond their small pool of light.

A moment later, a bizarre figure emerged, slithering, out of the gloom. His entire face was obscured by an overabundance of white beard and hair; he wore a garment similar to their own, only woven of brilliant white fiber; and beneath its hem, a thickly muscled length of limbless reptilian body coiled and extended behind. The serpent-man extended his two deep-olive toned arms in a gesture of welcome.

"Well met," he boomed, his voice issuing from a mouth which was veiled by glinting silver hair. "It has been many, many a long year since I have seen other members of our Order."

Anakin stared. Obi Wan _almost_ found himself at a loss for words. "….Master Xerxes?" he managed to stammer out.

The ancient Thisspiasian Jedi bowed deeply from his waist, tail slowly curling behind. "I was beginning to think you hadn't got my message," he said.


	11. Chapter 11

**Fallout**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 11<strong>

Anakin managed to snap his jaw shut and grind out a half-stunned response. "Your message?" he repeated, feeling confusion tugging at the orderly matrix of his certainties, like a grav generator gone haywire. "You mean…the distress beacon? Your droid back there mentioned an emergency signal."

Master Sen Sen Xerxes' expression was difficult to read, behind the obscuring cascade of silver hair. His Force presence was foreign to the young Jedi, and ancient, and equally indecipherable. "Ah, the droid. Yes… the distress signal lasted perhaps six weeks after the initial disaster. Radiation and environmental factors destroyed the surface relay. That was some time ago."

Anakin followed behind as the hirsute Jedi slithered his way back down the dark tunnel. As they walked, glow rods lit and faded in sequence, activated by their motion. A flickering spotlight of dull gold seemed to follow them, casting the warm hues of their robes in rich highlight. Their bare feet and Master Xerxes' scaled hide made only the softest of whispers against the hard stone floor.

"I'm sorry your signal was never intercepted," he offered. The idea of being entombed in a radiation bunker for _more than a century_ sent a thrill of dread down his spine. It was a living death – an imprisonment worse than any he could imagine, beyond that suffered by invalids who were chained to machines to keep their vital functions pumping. He would rather die than suffer either fate. Even though that was not the Jedi way.

The Thisspiasian halted and turned back to them briefly. "Ah, but it _was_ intercepted, Master Skywalker," he intoned.

Anakin startled – there had been no formal introductions. He watched Master Xerxes's gaze travel over to Obi Wan, gravely.

"Your message did reach Coruscant at some point," Obi Wan admitted, inclining his head. "Understand that I had not yet been born, and know of this only from reading official records."

Master Xerxes white head bobbed up and down, knowingly. "You tell me nothing I did not know already, The Force has shown me much in these last years. It is in the past, and no longer exists. However, I am honored that you have chosen to grant my request."

Now Anakin felt his disordered certainties give way and crumble beneath him, sending him into a freefall. "What? Your request? Master, what's-"

"We should speak later," Obi Wan cut him off, the confident authority in his tone completely undermined by the bright gleam of confusion and doubt in his eyes and the Force.

Sen Sen Xerxes twisted his flexible torso round again and continued down the passage way. "You will wish to rest and meditate before we meet with the other Friends," he declared. "I will show you to guest quarters."

"With respect, master, we are pressed for time. There are hostile droid forces on Rhellis Massa's surface as we speak," Obi Wan protested.

But the Thisspasian waved a long arm at him, as though chastening a wayward apprentice. "They will not discover you here. You must have patience and trust in the Force. You came thus far at its prompting; why now do you fret to escape so hurriedly?"

Obi Wan's mouth pressed into a thin line, and a familiar groove appeared between his brows. "Master Xerxes –"

"All shall be made clear," the ancient master announced, with a sweeping imperiousness reminiscent of Yoda at his most determined. "We shall meet again in one hour's time. Rest and be at ease." They stopped at a low arch issuing into a vestibule off which several simple doors stood open, a pale light flooding from each threshold. "I shall convene the Friends. You have arrived none too soon, and they will be eager to meet you."

As his undulating form retreated down the passage, lit by the flickering circles of moving light, Anakin scowled, chafing against the imposed inaction, and the melodramtic air surrounding their arrival. On the other hand, he needed a moment to reorient himself – and to wrest some badly-needed answers out of Obi Wan. "C'mon," he grunted, leading the way into the nearest chamber.

They stepped into a neat and clean hollow, a round-contoured hovel reminiscent of the mud-pack slave quarters on Tatooine. The air was warm, sweet-scented, limpid with a sourceless light. There were sleeping bunks set into the wall, a few tables and storage chests, two molded plastoid chairs. He took this all in with one swift, assessing glance, and then rounded on the older Jedi. "What the kriff is going on here? What message is he talking about?"

Obi Wan was a master of evasion. "You heard him – they apparently set up a broad band distress signal in the aftermath of the final bombardment. Tragically, it was never answered."

"Tragically?" Anakin's eyes narrowed. "_You_ said the signal was intercepted. What do you know that you're not telling me?"

Obi Wan stroked his beard and made a great show of examining the small room's contents, his eyes never meeting Anakin's. "Nothing of importance to our present mission, Anakin. You must trust me-"

"How can you _say_ that when you don't return the favor? What 's so dastardly and grim that I can't be trusted to know about it?"

"That's _not_ the point. I have access to certain… restricted files. Master Yoda granted me permission to see them on strict conditions. It wouldn't be appropriate to-"

"Yeah? Well, Yoda also made me promise to stay close to you. _He_ recognizes that we're a team, that I'm not your snot-nosed Padawan anymore. Why can't you?'

That got his former master's attention. The aloof façade disintegrated into sharp rebuttal. "Perhaps I lack sufficient evidence of the same! Petulant insistence on overstepping your own bounds is hardly a sign of maturity, Anakin. And I might add that-"

"Save the lecture, Obi Wan! I'm _not_ your Padawan anymore, got it?"

"Anakin-"

"No! You drag me halfway across the galaxy on some wild bantha chase, get us into this mess with the droids and this weird Friends cult or whatever, and you expect me to tag along for the ride? No thanks."

"Anakin-"

"And I hate these stupid _robes, _too. You owe me."

Obi Wan pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled. "Very well. I'll _tell_ you, against my better judgment." He hesitated, folding his arms across his chest and fixing Anakin with a piercing look, as though to hold a squirming and uncooperative youngling in place. "The Council was aware of that distress beacon a century ago. They chose not to respond."

"What?" Fury rose like a magmaic tide. Anakin bottled it up, tightening his mental shields and his fists. "Why not?"

Obi Wan watched him warily, as a sentinel observes a dormant volcano. "I don't know, precisely," he replied, a bit too carefully. "But both sides of the dispute had refused Jedi mediation before and during the civil conflicts, and one Knight who voluntarily offered his services was killed in a bombing."

The first dribble of oozing wrath spilled over the crater's edge. "So the Council decided to abandon the cause? Let them nuke each other out, justice be damned? How could they _do _that? There were innocents!"

"Every conflict of this nature is deplorable," Obi Wan answered, eyes bright with battle readiness, and with something else, more personal and unresolved. "There have been other hopeless situations in which help is refused, in which even that given freely, despite such protestations, is twisted and rejected… in which there is nothing else to be done."

"That's …" But Anakin's extensive arsenal of obscenities failed him. And beneath the pompous lecture there was a serpentine flick of pain, of buried memory. He pounded on it, like a krayt hunting a lame bantha calf.. "Melida-Daan," he shot back.

Obi Wan actually hissed. He broke eye contact, briefly. When he looked up, his armor was back in place, impervious, unscarred by memory or emotion. "Yes. That is a relevant example."

Ankin's mouth twisted. "No. It's a personal example. Guess what? You're not the only one who can do some snooping around in the Archives. I might have accessed a few restricted files myself."

One of Obi Wan's eyebrows crept upward with a languid diffidence that told Anakin he had scored a direct hit. "Oh?"

"Yeah." The young man twisted the knife, for good measure. "And know what happens to Jedi who follow their conscience and their heart – and who get _involved_ in a deplorable situation that the Council has already condemned as hopeless ? They get the shaft, master. Disgraced. Abandoned. Or maybe you already knew that."

And if that handful of proverbial dirt in the face didn't prove that Anakin had shed the rank of _Padawan_ forever, then nothing would. He stood toe to toe with his _colleague, _ his equal, and rode the hot currents of the storming Force, the clouds of ash and fire born of his own resentment and the lightning flashes of Obi Wan's outrage. They soared in it together, circling like hawkbats, like angry draigons, and then swooped apart.

"I think this time would be well spent in meditation," the older man gritted out with supercilious precision. "If you will excuse me, Master Skywalker."

"Of course." He only inclined his head, not a full bow that would suggest subordination, or contrition.

Obi Wan stalked out the door, presumably to find another alcove in which to lick his wounds and cry on the Force's shoulder. Anakin ignored the terrible twisting in his gut, and breathed deeply through the first few waves of remorse. Because he spoke the truth, and he was right. And he wasn't done asking uncomfortable questions, either. If Master Sen Sen Xerxes thought he could make a dramatic reappearance from the dead and then yank them around like puppets on a string, he had seriously mistaken his man. Anakin Skywalker was not to be trifled with, even by the Force itself.

* * *

><p>The room furthest from Anakin wasn't far enough; even here, the Force churned with the young Jedi's emotions, flared bright and hot with successive waves of bitterness and accusation. But it was a little better, and that would have to suffice. Obi Wan knelt upon the hard-packed floor, and breathed <em>out<em> his own seething tangle of thoughts and memories. They served no purpose but distraction on this strange mission; soon enough SenSen Xerxes would reappear, and he must be ready for whatever revelations awaited. Release, and center.

There was much to meditate upon. _I was beginning to think you hadn't got my message. _ The ancient Thisspiasian did not refer to the defunct emergency beacon – he meant something more recent. He meant the Force's insistent summons, issued in such unfamiliar and yet personal terms. How was that possible? It was true that a powerful Jedi might – under duress, in extreme need – be able to touch the mind of another to whom he was very close… an old friend, a teacher, a Padawan. It was not unheard of. But his own familiarity with Master Xerxes was limited to the perusal of a few entries in the Archives, and the ancient Jedi's connection to him was non-existent.

Although he seemed to know the names of his visitors without being told, almost as though a third party had heralded their coming, made the introductions prior to their arrival. Now there was a strange thought, and an unsettling one. The Force should not be playing _messenger boy, _for stars' sake! A Jedi 's life was committed, unreservedly, to the service of the Force. _Not _ the inverse. That would be… absurd and unfitting.

_Are you lecturing the Force itself?_ a gently amused voice castigated him.

"I -!" but the protest died on his lips. He breathed _in. _ Release and center. Here, beneath the scarred and radiation scoured surface of Rhellis Massa, the ghosts of the past were silent, solitude no longer invaded by clamoring voices of memory. The Living Force flowed steady and serene. And once again, it appeared to be in a chatty mood.

"This isn't _right,"_ he insisted, wincing at the near-petulance in his own_ voice._

_Isn't it? Are you so wise that you understand every mystery of existence? Your heart was not always so heavily armored,_ I think.

The illusion of intimate conversation with a long-dead friend was heart-rending, far too realistic. He chafed beneath the imposition. Could he not be spared the subtle mockery? The lowliest of the Force's servants he might be – he _knew_ himself to be – but surely he did not deserve torment at its hands?

The very air seemed to sigh, the elusive floral scent grow stale. _If you will not yet trust me, then you must at least trust Anakin._

"But I do. I trust him with my life." Speaking aloud relieved some of the terrible pressure in his chest, where longing and denial met in a protracted skirmish.

_Then trust him with the less important things, too. You will need him here. You can handle all the most difficult tasks, while he can take care of the impossible ones. You two make a wonderful team. I was quite right about that._

"What about Sen Sen Xerxes?"

_I will let him speak for himself,_ the voice decided, fading away into the interstices between speech and meaning, sound and hearing.

The slither of scaly hide against the stone floor could be heard approaching once again, this time with several pair of feet in tow. He rose, and smoothed the folds of the gold cloth, fingertips brushing last against his 'saber's hilt. And then he went to meet those to whom he had been sent, by the will of the Force.


	12. Chapter 12

**Fallout**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 12<strong>

Master Sen Sen Xerxes stood flanked by four new figures: two tall emaciated humanoids, and two hunch-shouldered insectoid people, all of them draped in golden cloth similar to that provided for their guests. The newcomers stared at the Jedi in undisguised curiosity, eyes and antennae roving over them head to foot, studying their faces especially.

"Master Kenobi, Master Skywalker," the Thisspiasian intoned. "Meet the chief advisors and leaders of the Friends." He gestured to the left, indicating the gaunt humanoids, their grooved grey-skinned faces elongated like those of Utapauns. "Keelar and Sokova, of the Pau." His hand swept to the right. "Chktlt and Mktzm of the Ichth'chtxl people." The four dignitaries bowed as their anatomy permitted – the Pau bending elegantly at the waist, the Ichth'chtxl flexing their segmented bodies between head and thorax and rubbing their elbow joints together musically.

Anakin was careful to imitate Obi Wan's gracious bow. Ichth'chtxl, huh? They had been known to enjoy a well-marinated platter of human flesh as a delicacy – even the Archives records corroborated the unpleasant allegations – but maybe they were, as the name would suggest, all Friends here underground. Besides, Galactic law forbade the slaughter and consuming of other sentients.

"We come to serve," Obi Wan responded formally. Anakin knew his mentor was feeling in a bit over his head when he resorted to the stiff litany of traditional diplomatic exchange, but who wouldn't in this situation?

"Please," Keelar, the taller of the Pau spoke. "Allow us to show you the extent of our abode. You will no doubt wish to see what we have achieved in all these long years. Here, the Friends have created true peace."

Mktzm seconded this motion with a rapid-fire arpeggio of buzzes and clicks, upper set of limbs gesticulating pointedly.

"Come," Sen Sen Xerxes commanded, leading the small procession deeper into the subterranean realm. The stately and solemn Pau fell into step beside Obi Wan, leaving Anakin to entertain the Ichth'chtxl as best he was able.

"So…," he ventured as they passed from corridor into wide domed hall and thence to another corridor, "The Pau and your people are no longer at war? History texts have it that you annihilated each other long ago."

His companions denied this with vigorous bobbing of their round heads, and much scraping of their limbs together. Sokova, pacing sedately ahead of them, peered at him over one bony shoulder. "Our ancestors did indeed bring each other to the brink of utter extinction. The few who believed in the cause of peace retreated here during the final conflict – to await rescue. But such never arrived, and we have since been grateful. For free of war and temptation from without, we have crafted a harmonious way of life. And we do not call ourselves by the old names, Jedi Skywalker. Here, all are of the Friends."

"I see," Anakin replied neutrally. "Your ancestors…?"

"Yes," Sokova continued. "The Pau are in their third generation, while our fellows of the Ichth'chtxl are in their seventeenth. But our numbers are dwindling, and that is also a blessing. Our resources are not what they once were. Our vitality is in great need of renewal. But that is why you are here, I have no doubt, or Master Sen Sen would not have sent for you."

Right. Whatever. They passed through another low arch, and into a mighty cavern, a natural formation deep beneath Rhellis Massa's surface. The uneven roof was slick with some luminous mineral, dripping with condensed moisture; below, in endless orderly rows, tier upon tier, was arranged a carefully groomed orchard and garden, a ziggurat of planters and boxes arranged into a mighty geometrical hill of green and purple and yellow-brown. Anakin recognized few of the species, and supposed most were fungal rather than true plants. In the steady drip of the artificial rain, and in the diffuse glow of silvery light, the garden took on a surreal aspect, a dreamlike clarity. If this was meant to grow food, then there must be enough to sustain hundreds.

Anakin wasn't much of a horticulturalist, being of a mechanical bent, but Obi Wan appeared suitably impressed. "This far outdoes the Agridomes on Bandomeer," he said. "To cultivate so much life in these very limiting conditions is an astonishing feat."

Keelar bowed deprecatingly. "But we owe our success to Master Sen Sen. Without him, this sanctuary would wither. He has nurtured it from the earliest years, and it has in turn nurtured all the Friends."

The ancient Jedi slithered forward to admire his handiwork. "There was a time," he explained, "When I petitioned the Council to consider requiring every Jedi initiate, including Padawans aspiring to Knighthood, to complete a mandatory two year term in the AgriCorps. Such skills are incomparably valuable, and sadly demeaned by so many arrogant members of the Order."

Anakin rolled his eyes privately. Yeah, like sweet-talking tubers was going to prepare anyone for the life of a Jedi. Force- aided cultivation techniques were more like parlour tricks in his book… although a buried part of him felt a pang. In a place like Tatooine, the power to wheedle and coax tenacious life out of desolation and drought would have meant an end to the suffering of many. But he did not think of Tatooine. Not anymore. He banished the image.

"I take it your suggestion did not meet with full approval," Obi Wan replied.

"Dismissed," the Thisspiasian sighed. "I don't suppose you have studied such arts yourself?"

"No… I have never been afforded much opportunity."

"It is never too late to learn," Master Xerxes assured him. "This garden is a monument to the power of the Force. Without its influence, this miniature world would collapse. But I am able to sustain its growth, and thereby not only our food, but water and oxygen cycle as well. We are dependent upon this masterpiece of Life in more than one way, and all the Friends honor that miracle by laboring here in turns."

Anakin was rapidly filling in the blanks. "So when you first sheltered here, there wasn't sufficient food or survival equipment?"

They moved onward, to a far exit. "Indeed not. The Friends originally anticipated rescue within a standard month or so… but when it became apparent that no rescue was coming, I took matters in my own hands. I could not permit hundreds of innocents to perish, due to the indifference of those thousands of lightyears away. We have found ways to survive, as you can see."

"And there isn't any conflict among the people?" It was hard to believe; if Anakin had learned on thing in all his long years as a Jedi it was that sentient nature was lamentably predictable: strife and bitterness took no account of a society's magnitude; indeed, small communities often harbored festering psychic pustules of hate and vengeance.

"Oh no," Sokova murmured. "We have the guidance of Master Sen Sen to settle disputes." The two Ichth'chtxl chattered and hummed their accord.

The young Jedi caught Obi Wan's eye and flicked a meaningful glance at the Thisspiasian Jedi's back. The older man lifted his shoulders in the faintest ghost of a shrug and beetled his brows together.

Weird. There was no other word for it. Just… weird.

* * *

><p>The Friends were eager to make a full exhibition of their home, in all its parochial glory. Obi Wan patiently endured the remainder of the tour, which covered their residential areas, storage and maintenance caverns, and a womp-rat warren of interconnecting passages. The original bunker, he was informed, had been expanded over the decades to accommodate a burgeoning population and its demands; the excavation had taken advantage of the natural cavern system as much as possible, while the Ichth'chtxl people's native skills had provided the rest. There were none alive now save Master Xerxes who remembered the conflict which had thus entombed them; and yet there was a sense of contentment and acceptance pervading the cloistered community.<p>

Warmth, nourishment, company, the predictable rhythms of animal life: what else did sentients require beyond a way to quench their thirst for knowledge? And even this seemed to have been provided for: they were last shown the library – little more than a hollowed-out alcove dedicated to the storage of some score of holobooks which the ancient Jedi master had expressly recorded for the benefit of his adopted wards.

And here the enthusiastic docents left them, the virtues and mysteries of their home fully explicated. "Thank you, Friends – I will speak to the other Jedi alone now, for a short while," the Thisspiasian dismissed them.

When the two pairs of guides had disappeared again, leaving the three Jedi ensconced in the tiny room with its two shelves of glowing holobooks, Obi Wan addressed himself to Sen Sen Xerxes directly. They had wasted enough time with introductions. "I am humbled by your dedication to these people, master," he began. "You have spent more than a century caretaking them , and certainly they would long ago have perished without you. But I do not understand why you …sent for us."

The slivery strands of Master Xerxes' hair fluttered, suggesting a breath of laughter. "Where the distress beacon failed, I have chosen to use a more reliable method of communication. The Friends have been virtual prisoners here for too long. It is time they left, and found their own kind again, though this is something none of them wish for."

Anakin traced one gloved finger along the spines of the holobooks, squinting at the titles inscribed in glowing aurebesh characters, listening to this exchange but not making comment. Obi Wan stroked his beard.

"Forgive me," he said cautiously. "You have been dwelling here with them for countless years. Why the sudden change of heart? Is it because of the war?"

Master Xerxes motioned him to sit, and coiled his own length into a tight knot beneath his torso. "The war," the Thisspiasian repeated thoughtfully. "Yes, the war. That was foretold."

Anakin turned, a shadow behind his eyes.

"But no," Master Xerxes continued. "It is not the war which has determined that the time has come. It is simply the will of the Force."

Obi Wan cast a quelling look at Anakin, who was drawing in a breath preparatory to some sharp rebuttal. The Force eddied slowly, circling in hypnotic currents, promising new understanding. "And I recognize that, too, master – or I would not be here. But-"

The ancient Jedi wagged a long, clawed finger at him. "No but. I must say, you are exactly as described to me. _Headstrong yet obedient. Cynical yet innocent._"

Anakin's eyebrows were arching upward into his unruly tangle of hair. Obi Wan ignored the deep amusement dancing in his friend's bright eyes. "Tell us why we are here," he insisted. "We were followed by enemy squadrons, and that may make the situation more complicated."

Sen Sen Xerxes held his hands up in a placating gesture. "Patience," he advised. "I have sent for you because the time has come when I can no longer provide for the needs of the Friends. Their food supply will soon dwindle, and with it both water and breathable air. This fragile sanctuary is doomed."

Anakin interrupted, no longer able to restrain himself. "What do you mean?" he demanded. "You spent all this time preserving them and now you're going to abandon them to their fate? That makes no sense."

The Thisspiasian regarded him silently for a moment. "You are quick to accuse, young Knight. Is this now the vogue among our brethren on Coruscant?"

"No, master," Obi Wan hastened to assure him. "Anakin is young and … compassionate to a fault." He skewered the brash subject of this euphemistic assessment with a hard look. "But we are curious why you would withdraw your support so abruptly, after such long commitment."

The ancient Jedi chuckled softly and folded his hands together. "You misunderstand, my friends," he told them. "It is not of my choosing, though I have no objection to raise."

They waited.

"You see," Master Xerxes said. "…I am dying."


	13. Chapter 13

**Fallout**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 13<strong>

Master Sen Sen Xerxes's quiet announcement of his own impending extinction left barely a tremor in the Force; the ancient Thisspiasian seemed entirely unaffected by the imminent event, while Obi Wan seemed to receive the news with the same thoughtful abstraction with which he might listen to a diplomatic briefing – eyebrows only slightly contracted, as though this news heralded some unanticipated but quotidian difficulty, a mere problem to be overcome with appropriate strategy.

Only Anakin cared. He had seen plenty of death, of course – meted out a great deal of it himself. He had _fought_ Death – exacting punishment on its lackeys and tools, vengeance for its obscene theft, for its unjust claiming of his mother's life. He had not let Death slink away on Tatooine, unscarred, unpunished for its abominations. But he had not been triumphant, either; and that knowledge burned into his flesh, into his mind, into his heart, until he was indelibly branded with its mark. He did not understand the Jedi doctrine regarding death. Oh, he could repeat it by heart: there is no death, there is only the Force. But _acceptance_ of mortality, of the ultimate defeat lying in ambush over every personal horizon, of the laughing enemy that waited with open arms at the end of every hero's journey : this he could not grasp. When he tried to close his fist about it, the words evaporated into smoke and eluded him, slipping out of his clutches, leaving him stuttering and empty-handed.

Obi Wan was looking at him, gently, and with piqued concern behind his blue gaze. Anakin coughed and took refuge in speech; the unsaid was a traitorous companion. "You are dying? Why?" he managed to say. Anything at all would suffice, would veil his initial throb of horror. "Are you ill?"

SenSen Xerxes chuckled, a light sibilant sound like the whisper of dried _chennki_ gourd windchimes in Mos Espa's marketplace. "Ill? No, no. But Master Skywalker, I am quite old. And The Force is calling me. For some time now. I have only delayed my departure on account of the Friends."

The young Knight stirred impatiently. Nobody – not the Force, not a single soul – had waited until his mother was ready to _depart._ "You didn't foresee that?" he demanded. "You've been here over a century and you never made a contingency plan for their survival?" There was a passivity in the old Thisspiasian which he found almost as offensive as the Jedi master's ready acceptance of mortality – a patience which seemed to indict his own restless craving for action. He scowled.

"Anakin-"

"No, no," Master Xerxes waved Obi Wan's interference aside. "Let him speak. While I lived, there was no need to fret. And now that my time is come, the Force has provided a means of bringing help to our own doorstep. I am no longer able to protect and sustain the Friends; and so, the task must be given over to another."

"You brought us here to….take over?"

The Thisspiasian spread his hands wide. "Help is long overdue, especially from the Order. I know that you will not fail."

Anakin cast a startled glance at Obi Wan, but his mentor did not make eye contact. He merely stroked his beard slowly. "A war is waging in the galaxy as we speak," he said. "It may be very difficult to arrange an evacuation without risking enemy assault."

"I am aware of this," the Thisspiasian sighed. "I have felt the darkness growing in the Force. But if you cannot remove the Friends from this stronghold, then of course one of you must stay with them until such conditions of safety obtain."

Anakin opened his mouth to raise a strident objection, but Obi Wan thwarted him with his simple affirmative. "Of course." His eyes finally flicked in Anakin' direction, commanding – or requesting?- patience, promising –or submitting to? – a private discussion later.

Sen Sen Xerxes folded his gnarled hands and executed a neat bow, his serpentine tail coiling elegantly with the motion. "I will allow you to settle the details privately," he announced, dark eyes breaking free of Obi Wan's gaze and questing over Anakin's hardening expression. The young Jedi threw up ironclad mental shields, pressed his lips together firmly.

The Thisspiasian withdrew, gently waving the library's door closed behind him.

Anakin had learned patience since Geonosis. So he waited three full heartbeats before leaping into the fray. "He's barmy. Neither of us is _staying_ here, master."

Obi Wan parried that with ease. "Are you suggesting we simply abandon these people? A moment ago you were outraged at the notion that he do the same."

"I never said _abandon_ them. The Republic needs to launch an evacuation effort."

"The Republic? That would be us, my friend. And now that we've attracted Separatist attention by landing here, Dooku will set up a blockade on this planet, of sufficient strength to make evacuation… impractical."

"Uh… it's impractical now, master. We have two starfighters and a frigate. Not enough to move these people off-world. We'll need to call for reinforcements. Get a cruiser out here before Dooku can move in more ships."

Obi Wan considered this soberly. "The radiation shielding here will block all transmissions. It would require personal oversight – a direct emergency conference with Coruscant – one of us would have to return to Cody and the ship. You're talking about a prolonged evasive run through the atmosphere and the star system – not to mention the seeker droids on the surface. The odds of success are next to impossible."

"My specialty," Anakin grinned. "I can do it. You know I can."

Obi Wan hesitated, but the dubiety faded from his eyes as he continued glowering at the younger Jedi. Because they both knew it was true: Anakin could outfly _anything._ Inside a starfighter's cockpit, he could jink and juke his way out of death's own clutches. His skill was simply _impossible._

"Very well," the Jedi master agreed reluctantly. "You go to call for help. I'll stay here. But Anakin…"

"What?" Anakin hated those last-minute addenda, even more than his friend's awful "loose wire" jokes. Every time Obi Wan appended a conditional to some plan, it was a dreadful reminder of duty and self-sacrifice, the dark lining on Anakin's luminous silver cloudbanks.

"Anakin, listen to me. If Dooku has already moved in more warships – if the situation is untenable, and an evacuation attempt will risk more lives than it will spare, you _must_ leave the system. Report to the Council what has occurred, and let them make the proper decision about Rhellis Massa and the Friends. I will do what I must here, to keep them safe in the meantime."

"What? And for the next hundred years until the Force sends _you_ a replacement? Until the whole damn war is ended and it's safe to crawl out again? Or until Dooku digs you all out of here? What kind of a fate is that, master? You can't be serious."

"I am; and I trust in the Force to guide my path."

"Well, you should trust in _me._ And I'm not leaving without you," Anakin retorted, fiercely. He snarled out the words, in the form of a threat, because _attachment_ was prohibited, and most easily veiled by hostility.

Obi Wan was not deceived. "Sometimes the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, or of _one,"_ he said, pointedly. "A Jedi recognizes this."

"Right. Is that why the Council screwed Rhellis Massa the first time? 'Cause their needs were outweighed by the many?"

"Anakin!"

"Don't pretend to be scandalized, master! I know where you stand on this, remember? There was a time when you weren't hypocritical enough to abandon the small, insignificant cause."

Obi Wan stiffened. "_That_ was a childish mistake," he growled. "The Council –"

"_Kriff_ the Council, Obi Wan! The Council didn't send us here, did it? You did – you and your mysterious vision or message from the Force. You're not above listening to your own instincts prior to the Council.'s decree. Hells! You told me all those years ago that you would _defy_ the Council if you had to –"

"That has _nothing_ to do with this! I gave Qui Gon my word !"

Obi Wan was badly riled, his customary armor dented and cracked. Anakin chose power and aggression. "And that's not the needs of _one?"_

"Are you saying I made the wrong decision. _Anakin?"_

But Soresu defensive reflexes didn't help him in this case, because _this_ was the one realm where Obi Wan's high ground was shifting, treacherous, a high fortress of hard platitudes erected upon quicksand, upon _sentiment. _ "No!" Anakin triumphed. "So neither am I."

There was a lull, in which their ragged breaths parenthesized the moment. Anakin relished his victory, the point scored. Obi Wan looked… stunned. He wasn't accustomed to losing a battle of wits.

"I'll be back as soon as I'm able," Anakin promised. "Master. Just be ready to move fast."

"Of course," Obi Wan agreed wryly. "We shall suit our actions to your attention span."

He let it pass. Obi Wan _always_ had to have the last word, but it didn't really matter. Anakin had already won this round. He nodded, smiling in mock bitterness, and took his leave. The sooner he left, the sooner he would be back. Because he had made a promise to Yoda, that he would stay close to his friend and master – he, too, had given his word; and he, too, would keep it.

* * *

><p>Alone again, enclosed in the cramped space with a score of holobooks and the ringing Force-echoes of Anakin's condemnation, Obi Wan steadied his breathing and his unruly thoughts. This was no time to permit a few ill-chosen barbs to imbalance him; the situation brought its own brand of trouble, and needed no embellishment from Anakin's choleric temperament.<p>

There was, however, a thread of truth in the young Jedi's accusatory words… a gnawing ache in his conscience provoked by the heated exchange. Master Yoda had encouraged him to trust the Force-borne mandate which brought him hence; but had the ancient Jedi known what he would find? Likely not. Though surely he had an inkling; Yoda had been a member of the very Council which had condemned SenSen Xerxes to his long exile in the first place. Perhaps he assumed the Thisspiasian was dead… but then, Yoda seldom assumed anything so rashly. What did that imply? That the revered master _regretted_ the century-old decision to abandon its own? That he thought this strange message outweighed or took priority over an edict long since defunct? That the Council had been wrong, and the living Force now sought to rectify their mistake?

And more disturbingly: what did that say about _him? _Why would the Force choose to make him its instrument of correction? He had never – well, seldom – been one to criticize and question the Council's wisdom. Qui Gon done so most publicly, indeed; and Anakin most certainly had, and still did in the privacy of his own judgment. But he, Obi Wan, was no such rebel born and bred. Thne he wondered if he were, in some covert fashion. Then he wondered whether he would even be aware of such fatal character flaws. Perhaps rebellion and defiance had been creeping up on him over the years without his conscious realization, until he was so steeped in them that he mistook willful obstinacy for the will of the Force….just as he had on Melidaa-Daan so long ago.

After all, here he was championing the lost cause once again. Going – or staying- to the rescue of the pathetic life forms forgotten and abandoned by the rest of the galaxy, including the Order.

_And what is so terrible about that?_ the omnipresent, softly laughing voice said.

"I am undermining the Council's explicit decision," he protested. "I've seen the records."

_That was in the past. It no longer exists. Justice dwells only in the present moment. _

True. That was the foundation of all forgiveness, and the refutation of every vengeful impulse. And yet… "Master Xerxes' last exchange with the Council was extraordinarily acrimonious."

_Deservedly so, on both sides. Will you perpetuate that rift, or bring healing? A Jedi lives to restore balance, not to hold a grudge on behalf of those long ago reunited to the Force. Search your feelings._

But he didn't truly need to. He had already made his decision, pledged his help to the Friends and their peculiar shepherd. It was the Force which had singled him out and appointed him the task; and if that meant that he now trusted the Living Force more than the tradition which had nurtured and protected him from his earliest days, and to which by all logic he owed unswerving loyalty, then it was none of his concern. For he had sworn his service to the Force itself, even above the Order, as every Knight of the ranks had done. If he was mired in paradox, it was one of submission, not rebellion.

He sighed. Qui Gon would have been very, very pleased with this blasted situation.

_He would indeed_, the voice chuckled, ethereal warmth cascading over him like the brush of gentle fingers against a braid that no longer existed, against a soft, plaited tether which had long been severed.

Obi Wan stood, and shook off unproductive introspection. He had work to do.


	14. Chapter 14

**Fallout**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 14<strong>

Anakin used the Force to lever open the inner hatch, and stepped from the dark decontam-field tunnel into the pale light of the radiation lock. The service droid slumped in one corner; at his sudden reappearance, it jolted back into life, servos whirring and limbs jerking in its characteristically spasmodic manner.

"Oh my! Oh dear… you've only just arrived - one hundred eleven years late, to boot…and now you're leaving again?" it complained, tottering toward him with an air of affronted hospitality.

"I'm a social butterfly," he told it curtly, eagerly stripping the layers of golden cloth off his person. "Here. Gimme back my clothes and gear." He tossed the wadded bundle at the droid and crossed his arms, itching to get on with business.

The mechanical servant fumbled in one of the storage compartments clumsily, sorting through the items stowed inside its recesses. Anakin lost patience and called some of his belongings into his hands, sending the poor droid into cybernetic apoplexy.

"Oh my! This is highly irregular! There are protocols to be observed, sir! Re-exposure to a radiation saturated environment must be carefully controlled – indeed, we haven't had a single breach of optimal safety parameters in one hundred eleven standard years… I must reference the procedure manual to see what forms need to be filed in the database.."

He let the dithering droid carry on, yanked the clone bodysuit back in place, pulled on his acid-burned boots, hastily tugged tunics over his head, clipped his saber at his belt, and carefully recovered his prosthetic with its outer glove. Last of all, he clamped the clone helmet over his face. Thus armored, he shoved his way past the blustering droid and pushed back through the outer hatch.

Outside he hesitated, surveying the damage Obi Wan and he had wrought upon the outer seal earlier. If droid scouts penetrated this far, they wouldn't find it difficult to force an entry. But there wasn't time to painstakingly restore the ray shield generator now. He exhaled, banishing tension. He would just have to be fast – and trust Obi Wan to defend the underground citadel against any stray invaders.

He jogged up through the dilapidated capitol building, ascending through sub-basements and lower levels into the main atrium, where a tiny drizzle of acidic rain still spattered through the ruined dome into a shallow pool below. Night claimed Rhellis Massa; the drip of toxic water and the susurration of dust were the only sounds. And with these whispers came other inaudible moans and cries, the Force echoes of the long-dead. He had forgotten about them for a short while, in the Friends' subterranean oasis. Here, they chorused as loudly as ever, clamoring for his attention.

He set his comlink to an open active beacon, and waited. Either Artoo would find him first, or Dooku's droids would. He threaded his way among the fallen chunks of masonry, down the broken ceremonial stairway, and into the main thoroughfare of the gutted city. Here, in the canyon formed by the empty husks of its buildings, he was accompanied by a host of specters, by a legion of shadows marching at his back. The Force was rife with their laments, with their cries of sudden terror. Anakin drew it in, muted its frenzy in his blood, drank of it until the seething fear ran liquid in his veins, mingled with his resolve. His power to _accomplish_ his will, to _prevail,_ became identical with their despair, the thousand, million-fold jolt of their destruction. He was afire with it, banking its flames within his soul, within his grasp, waiting…

He welcomed the sudden arrival of the first droids.

Wraith-like, silhouetted in their own blinking red probe lights, they floated into the street, their reverse-articulated legs uncoiling beneath them, sharp, wicked, unforgiving, the thrum of their repulsors a counterpoint to his own deeper pulse, the war drum pounding beneath his skin. The Force rose up, welling with terror milked from long-dead memory, and he unleashed it upon his foes.

His saber spat blue luminance upon the walls of the dead city, actinic defiance spattered across crumbling stone, twisted metal. He cried aloud, releasing the flood, and threw himself upon the foremost droid, blade carving a single elegant line of destruction through the century-long silence. The hunter-seeker exploded beneath the onslaught, its head, its limbs, its serrated bayonet legs, its blaster array, its wicked peering eyes scattered and rolling in the dust.

Its companions fired upon him, fell upon him in their turn. He met their attack, his 'saber a thin and burning armor between their murderous attack and his own murderous core. He held that barrier in place as long as he could, rebounding shots, intoning silently with each perfect block and parry: _Accuracy. Speed. Stillness. Defense._ But Soresu was not his birthright, not his art. It crumbled - and rage, outrage, aggression spilled through, erupted, swept his defenses away.

And he lost the battle. He was rage, and the killers sent to fell him were consumed in it. He carved through them savagely, mercilessly, the Force _crushing_ their round bodies to crumpled balls, throwing sparking circuits like bright fountain-trails through the dark air. His saber screamed, a siren peaking to a soundless cry, to the hysterical chorus of ghostly voices. Even Darkness drew back, obeisant, leaving him in an empty space alone, lit by the thrumming cold fire of his blade. He stopped, chest heaving. Bits of droid lay at his feet, sprawled up the street in a long confetti trail.

How long till the next patrol came? How long till they discovered the underground hideaway? How long till they attacked, in droves, thrusting through the narrow opening, a mindless horde bearing down on Obi Wan without respite?

He almost tuned back, to stem the imaginary siege. In his mind's eye, his hands were once again stained with oozing mud and crimson liquid, once again holding a bloodied form he had not been able to _save._

It was Artoo's shrill whistle of greeting that saved him from the moment and its panicked hatred, that dispelled the miasma of voices whispering in the Force.

"Artoo!" he shouted into his comlink, voice cracking in relief. "Where are you?"

The pert astromech burbled a saucy reply.

"No, I'm not worried," he snapped. "I think I can handle a few droids without your help, buddy. C'mon, hurry up."

He could feel new danger approaching; the destroyed patrol had sent for back-up, and worse yet, had finally pinpointed his position. They would scour the city like akks licking the bones of their kill, now that they had found one of the Jedi. Time was running out.

Overhead, the sharp note of his fighter's drives knifed through the heavy nighttime silence. Minutes away, another band of droids eagerly sped on their way, hungry for him, their complex programming already calculating a multi-pronged attack.

He did not wish to sink beneath the waves of this place's hatred again. Rhellis Massa was… intoxicating. Dangeorus. "C'mon, Artoo!"

The Delta settled primly beside him, sending up a choking cloud of dust. But the helmet took care of that. Anakin was leaping into the open cockpit a second later. His hands grasped the familiar yoke with the gratitude of a drowning man clutching at a piece of driftwood. The canopy closed. "Let's go," he ground out.

Artoo spun his dome and shrieked in excitement as he punched the lithe fighter up into the purple skies, outrunning the cloying fingers of hate, the seductive voices of despair which chorused mournfully below. Speed was his refuge, his strength, his non-place, his meditative center. The ship roared beneath him, exultant in speed, in danger, in the impossible.

He flew, he plummeted headlong, straight toward the upper reaches of the skies, where Dooku's fighter squadrons would be waiting.

They didn't stand a chance. He laid on more speed, until his thoughts and the melting tatters of cloud were one meaningless, painless blur.

* * *

><p>Mktzm was sent to fetch the Jedi guest to the Friends' communal meal – a noisy affair held in a central cavern provided with long rows of low trestle tables. Stately grey-complected Pau and colorful Ichth'chtxl sat intermingled, the ubiquitous golden cloth of their robes catching the diffuse light of the primitive hover-globes above, radiating it back among the assembly in a warm consonance.<p>

Mktzm chivvied Obi Wan along to the head table, and waved all four upper limbs at a place directly beside Master Xerxes before settling himself stiffly opposite, his inflexible exoskeleton only awkwardly accommodating the customary crouching posture. But the Ichth'chtxl made no protest, merely re-arranging the drapes of his robe before passing the serving dishes with graceful precision.

The fare was simple: fungal salads, a fermented and salty broth, slices of some hot compressed protein, all doubtlessly derived from the garden. The Ichth'chtxl ate with the assistance of narrow utensil tubes, artificial probosces. The Pau employed an elongated scoop. Master Xerxes looked out over them and beamed.

"Ah – Master Kenobi," he warned, "You may wish to avoid these _essu_ fruits. They are considered deleterious to humans."

"Thank you." He watched Mktzm interact with a very small companion of the same species, an Ichth'chtxl child. The two buzzed and clicked away, humming and rubbing elbows in discordant unison. "Are the children raised in families or in common?" he asked, curiously.

Master Xerxes tilted his head to one side. "In common, of course. There were some objections in the first generation, naturally, but they are well accustomed to it now. And it is the best way."

Obi Wan nodded, passed the dish of _essu_, untouched, to the Pau on his left. He wondered how many other Temple customs had been grafted onto the Friends' utopian community… and how well they would tolerate the transition to life outside this sheltered colony.

Mktzm's young companion erupted into a shrill and squeaking cacophony – an ear splitting noise that the sent ripples of juvenile humor through the Force.

Master Xerxes leaned closer to translate. "B'chthkl is amused by your _face-garden_. He wonders why it has not yet turned white like mine, whether this means that you are a child like himself."

Obi Wan smiled. "Tell him that I am lamentably immature and will throw a shocking tantrum if he teases me any further."

The jest was transferred through the Thisspiasian and then Mktzm. The small insectoid's gleaming, faceted eyes bulged slightly and he tucked all his legs against his body in startlement, eliciting a ripple of laughter from Ichth'chtxl and Pau alike.

"Speaking of young ones," Master Xerxes continued in a low tone, "Your companion, Master Skywalker. He is most remarkable. The Force wars within him – do you not feel this also?"

"I –" Well. This was hardly polite dining conversation, but Master Xerxes was as eccentric and direct as any other Jedi two centuries old. "Anakin is special."

The Thisspiasian's head bobbed up and down several times. "He is the One. You know this already, though, I think."

"Perhaps." Obi Wan preferred not to discuss such things openly.

"I have spent many decades studying the prophecies regarding the end of this age," Master Xerxes offered. "They are, ultimately, unreliable and subject to many contradictory interpretations. The Living Force is a far better guide. You must not fret about such things as prophecy."

"I don't, master, believe me. The war hardly leaves time for idle speculation."

"Still," Master Xerxes mused. "A human. I was not expecting that. Tell me…. To whom was your friend Skywalker apprenticed? Surely the Council had sufficient insight to provide well for such a unique spirit's upbringing. Did old Yoda take him under his own wing?"

ObI Wan set his soup-dish down. The dregs of dark broth sloshed gently against its curving, pale sides. "Anakin was my Padawan."

The ancient Jedi stilled. His dark eyes, shadowed behind the silver veils of his hair, blinked slowly a few times, assessing. "But you must yourself have been barely past childhood."

He had never thought of it that way – not then, not ever since. The distance between his innocence and the burden of training Anakin was infinite, not measurable in years. But to Master Xerxes, a complete outsider, the difference between himself and Anakin might seem negligible, as though they were a pair of kitling littermates. "I was willing.. and there was little choice, though I have no regret."

The Thisspiasian tilted his head to one side. "Yes, yes, I see what you mean. There is a wisdom in that, too, I suppose," he muttered, sounding for all the world like a doddering elder who talked to himself, or to an imaginary third person hovering in the background.

"Pardon me, master, I don't-"

SenSen Xerxes waved a conciliatory hand at him. "Do not be perturbed," the ancient Jedi soothed. "I intend no disrespect or censure. Finish your meal. I have another, far more important question to ask of you, now that you are come. But we must speak of this matter in private. Will you meditate with me?"

Obi Wan looked up into the Thisspiasian's aged, exotic face with a nameless thrill of dread. The Force surged around them, carrying his will on its cresting tide, despite his trepidation. "Of course, master," he replied.


	15. Chapter 15

**Fallout**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 15<strong>

The first of the vultures was waiting for him just above the last cloud layer. Anakin soared through the shredding yellow mist, sickly rivulets of condensation wicked off his cockpit canopy by his sheer speed, the near vacuum of cold outside. He rose beyond the last veils of poisonous atmosphere, into stark night, seven robotic hunters hard on his tail.

Artoo bleeped a shrill warning; the proximity sensors rallied to the astromech's cause.

"I see 'em," the young Jedi grumbled. What fun was there in prolonging the chase? Let 'em come. He slowed, waited until the vultures had him locked on their targeting computers, and then dove, plunging back through the swirling upper atmosphere, a hailstorm of red bolts sizzling just past his thrusters, clipping off the wing shielding in blazes of spattering light. He plunged downward, reaching through the Force to feel his pursuers, feel their trajectories shifting, anticipating his evasive maneuvers.

_No such luck, poodoo-eaters_. He twisted, reversed, and headed directly back at them, driving straight into their oncoming fire. The targeting computer wasn't fast enough; their point blank shots went wide, sliding past him harmlessly, setting Artoo and the shipboard computer into fits. He laughed, settling into rhythm. The vultures overshot him, changed direction. He looped, rocketed upward again, seven desperate seekers on his tail.

The mists gave way once more to blackness, to an infinity speckled with islands of light. The stars blurred as he accelerated, as the Delta rattled beneath him, as his own heart pounded in unison with the drive uptakes, as his arms and legs and spine became one with the fragile shell of metal and circuits. The starfighter was nothing but a prosthesis welded about his soul, a shimmering armature around pure fire, around burning Light. He whooped, clenched his teeth in near ecstasy, saw the second squadron approaching and charged straight into Death, fearless, unconquerable.

Artoo's objections were lost in the rush of power that flowed through his limbs, through his blood, through the ship's humming drives. He opened the throttle all the way, safety override no longer standing between him and the essence of speed. The first vulture tried to dodge, and got caught in the shock wave off his rear starboard thruster, went spinning into its mate. The third one fired a shot at him; Anakin fired his own straight into the first bolt. The two plasma packets collided, exploded into a supernova of heat and fury. The droid went straight through it; Anakin sailed over the top, twisting his way past destruction by a hair's breadth. In the Force, a hair's breadth was an infinity.

The fourth droid was confused, ended up in front of him. It shattered into fiery bones, sparking innards. The parts rattled against the canopy and shields as Anakin skewered his way past, on a collision course with the next vulture. It pulled to the side at the last moment – he swerved _into_ it, accelerating madly – the droid spun, hit another droid, exploded. Anakin merely felt a jolt as his superior speed and weight carried him through, his maniacal impetus a weapon in its own right.

Artoo screamed something about a battle ship lurking behind the third moon. So Dooku had moved closer. But the lumbering cruiser could never catch him; even its turbo-lasers weren't fast enough to hit him. Without the safety override on the stabilizers, his Delta could outrun their projectiles. Weightless, frictionless, continually accelerating, he tore through empty void, onward to the distant Republic frigate at the system's edge.

Two new opponents ambushed him, materializing out of nowhere as he sling-shotted himself around the star's gravity well,. Magna-fighters, piloted by droid automata, they pounced on him from two directions, running hard to intercept him. He laid on speed. The Delta groaned. Artoo began a long, building crescendo of terror, curved head spinning. Anakin opened fire, loosing a steady stream of plasma directly ahead of himself, a bright and shining pathway. The magna fighters were heavily armed, and joined the fight readily; he corkscrewed, flipped, slid past their shots, never letting up speed. Locked in mortal combat, the three opponents hurtled toward a single point in space, a doomsday tactic worthy of the most desperate madmen…

Anakin got there a half-blink earlier than the droids. The magna-fighters blew each other to oblivion in a fireball that caught his rear stabilizers and sent him spinning dizzily, end over end. Artoo called him something obscene; he told the little astromech to watch his kriffing mouth. They straightened, the Delta's console lit up with a pained litany of complaints, Anakin whipped and cursed and flogged it past the finish line, riding it lame and limping across the frigate's maglev barrier and onto the decks, where he screeched to an inelegant halt on his damaged landing gear, sparks and bits of shorting circuitry trailing behind him like spilled guts.

The hangar bay crew – Gripes and Oafer – ran forward, flamm retardant at the ready, spitting out great clots of foam at the Delta's melting hull, the dangerously smoking access panels. Anakin and Artoo sprang from their respective perches as the same moment, landing on the scarred decking just as the clones managed to quench the last of the fires. The Delta sat, ruinous and reeking, the stink of slagged metal and overheated fuel and molten plastoid sending up a mournful lament, an accusatory trail of blackened smoke.

Oafer chuckled. "You scorched her real good, General."

"Yeah," Gripes seconded. "What's the rush, sir? With all due respect."

"I need to talk to the Commander," he grunted in reply, hurrying toward the bridge with Artoo bumbling along at his heels.

* * *

><p>Deep in the Force, enfolded within its deep currents, swathed in Light, there were three of them. Himself, and the old one, and another. Here there were no names, no solid identities; they played like colorful beams over a sun-drenched landscape, refractions of the one unitary Light, separate and yet distinct, other and yet the same. Radiance poured through them, illumined the wheeling spheres of the galaxy, the star, the planet, the tiny community beneath the hard shell of its surface. They rested in it, drank of it, forgot self and other, forgot names, forgot all but limpid serenity.<p>

When once again he opened his eyes, falling back into gross matter, into duty and present time, he could not quite remember why there had been three and not two; for here, kneeling upon the hard packed floor, old and not-so-old, there were only two of them. Obi Wan looked curiously at Sen Sen Xerxes, who placidly mirrored his speculative gaze.

"The Unifying Force speaks to you often," the ancient Thisspiasian observed. "I can feel its scars and bruises upon your spirit."

He frowned. "Scars? Master Xerxes –"

The serpentine Jedi chuckled. "An old figure of speech, before your time. _Wisdom is the scar of suffering; insight a bruise left by destiny's blows._ Perhaps a bit melodramatic, but the old poets were generally so."

They fell silent again; the strange intimacy of a shared meditation still binding them in an unfamiliar yoke. The pale-walled chamber waited, shielding and sheltering them at once.

"The Unifying and the Living Force are but two aspects of one thing, " the Thisspiasian declared. "It is folly to suppose that one contradicts the other, or that these two things can ever be in true conflict, though this is true often enough of those whom the Force binds to its service."

Obi Wan smiled, a little. How well he remembered the years of endless dispute with Qui Gon Jinn, the irresolvable tension between their perspectives, the frustration often peaking into disrespect, and deserved reprimand. Yes, these two perspectives often clashed, seemingly incompatible.

"Your own…differences of opinion with the Council might be attributed to that fact," he offered, watching the ancient Jedi carefully.

Master Xerxes' long body shifted, uncoiling and rerarranging itself into a knot beneath his torso. The tip of his tail flicked gently against the floor. "Those disputes belong to the past," he replied firmly. "There is nothing to be gained by re-examining them. Unless you perhaps harbor the same objections yourself?"

He bowed his head. "I do not presume to speak for the Council, nor to second-guess it. But I have not been given any explicit direction regarding this mission, besides the…message you spoke of earlier. And I wish to ask you about this."

"Then ask me," the Thisspiasian encouraged him. "I sense that you are disturbed by my means of communicating. Why is this?"

Obi Wan looked up at him, the murmuring chorus of doubts rising within his mind yet again. "We have never met, Master. And yet you were able to _speak_ to me through the Force. Not even in images and feelings, but in distinct _words._ I felt a _presence, _ even. It does not seem possible."

"Many things are possible with the Force, young one. More than you realize."

"Yes, master, but… even so. How could you send for me in such a direct manner? And… why _me?" _ The last question was the crux of the matter; it slipped out before he could rein in his tongue.

Sen Sen Xerxes studied him for a long minute, head cocked to one side. "Ah, just as you said," he sighed, as though speaking to himself. "This is difficult. But his humility is better credential than many decades of experience."

Obi Wan's brows contracted to a hard line. Was it possible that the ancient master was suffering from dementia? Such afflictions were not unheard of, even among the Jedi. And a century-long isolation here among the Friends might have stressed his aging mind.

The Thisspiasian broke in to a hearty laugh, silvery notes cascading like a fountain, until the Force chimed with mirth. "He thinks me senile!" Then, sobering and smoothing over the strands of his long beard with one knotted hand, he added, "Your question is a fine one. But I fear it is best answered by experience. You must be patient, and in time you may come to understand. I reached you in the only way I could – through an intermediary. That is all I will say now."

It was unsatisfying, but part of him was happy to leave the matter there. The sensation of treading across brittle ice, or balancing on a high and narrow pinnacle, grew more insistent the further he pressed his inquiries. He nodded, and dropped his gaze.

A long silence stretched between them, in which the ancient Jedi considered his guest quietly. The Force stilled into expectancy.

"Master Kenobi," Sen Sen Xerxes spoke at last. "There is more to my legacy here than the Friends. I entrust their safety to you and Master Skywalker, knowing that this is the will of the Force. But I have also wisdom which must be passed on, if you are willing."

Once again, the illusion of a third presence fluttered at the periphery of his awareness, seeming to fill the small room. A weightless breath of warmth raised the hairs at his nape. Wisdom? "What wisdom, master?"

The Thisspiasian folded his hands, interlacing the long, claw-tipped fingers. "I have had many decades to devote myself to scholarship. Before I came to Rhellis Massa in the hour of its need, I pursued the most abstruse and incomparable knowledge, the deepest mysteries of the Force."

"The Temple Archive records say as much, master," Obi Wan informed him.

Sen Sen Xerxes smiled, his long silver hair gently billowing outward as he released a breath of laughter. "Arrogant nonsense, for the most part," he snorted. "I was foolish enough to confuse knowledge and wisdom in those days. But I have been taught better."

"By the Friends? By your exile here?"

"In some ways," the ancient Jedi agreed. "But also by teachers. There is no other means to learn the ways of the Force: one teaches one, in youth and in age. It has been thus for millenia."

Obi Wan felt the peculiar stirring deep in his gut, the subtle twist that preceded a _bad feeling. _ Yet the warning remained nascent, curled in its bud, not yet flowering into acute dread. "What teachers?" he asked, admitting readily to confusion.

"Have you heard of the Order of the Whills?" the Thisspiasian queried.

He held a breath. Well. "Yes," he answered cautiously. "I have heard of them."

"Then you have heard of my teachers. And I have a proposal to make to you. You have come, at the bidding of the Force, against all likelihood, to grant me a boon. I would repay you…. In wisdom."

Exhale. Reality felt slippery, like thin ice. He clung to the Unifying Force, to the sure center. "What wisdom, master?"

"Immortality," the ancient Jedi whispered, his dark eyes burning behind the silver-white snowfall of his hair. "If you are willing to learn, I am willing to teach."

_Immortality?_ "I – Master Xerxes, with all respect –"

"Do not answer lightly," the aging Jedi master warned him. "This path is not laid before many, and is perilous to those that stray. Meditate upon it, and consider gravely; we will speak of it again when you are ready."

The ice crumbled beneath him, and he fell into icy premonition, sliding from treacherous certainty into deep and murky unknowing. "I shall," he promised, half-choking on the words.

This was not at all what he had expected... and not at all to his liking.


	16. Chapter 16

**Fallout**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 16<strong>

Commander Cody pivoted on the spot as the bridge doors hissed open, snapping into a rigid salute even as his dark eyes narrowed in concern. Anakin strode across the small bridge like a dark whirlwind, yanking the helmet off his head and peremptorily ousting the comm-sat officer from his station. The clone – CT 463589, or "Pyro" – took the usurpation of his throne with predictable equanimity, merely catching his brothers' eyes and raising his shoulders in a shrug which meant _there's no figuring a Jedi._

Anakin punched in the codes for an emergency tight-beam signal to Coruscant, and waited.

"I take it there's been a development, sir," the clone commander prompted him.

The young Jedi scowled. "You could say that. Dooku's got a horde of hunter-killer droids down there on the surface, and we've got three hundred some odd people to evacuate."

Cody was a consummate professional. "Yes sir," he responded, voice not betraying an iota of the sharp concern flaring through the Force. The clones were, as a whole, so well conditioned by their Kaminoan originators that they rivaled Jedi for outward stoicism. If anyone were ever to teach them the Force-skill of mental shielding, they would be impressive indeed. Even without the Force, there were aspects of the troops' psyches that eluded Anakin's grasp, as though ordinary parts of their brains or minds had been attenuated, or warped out of their natural rhythms. A clone was- at the deepest level – still unpredictable, a being with part of his own soul locked away out of sight.

The comm. console flickered, and a request to stand by appeared on the relay screen. Anakin swiveled in place, impatient. "Cody. What's the status of the Seppie fleet?"

The clone commander scowled. "They moved their cruiser in behind the second moon, sir. Proximity scanners show no further warships in the sector, but we've picked up a disturbance in the Meershak differential."

Anakin mirrored the clone officer's scowl. Theoretically, that could mean one or more heavy-mass objects approaching a likely reversion point in a nearby hyperlane. Or it could mean nothing, depending which astrophysicist you asked. Slowing hyperdrives to a crawl – barely above lightspeed – and holding off reversion to the last possible minute - a maneuver known in common spacefaring parlance as "looping" - was a good way to waste fuel, and a good way to lay an ambush. Things might get ugly out here if he brought more Republic ships into play. But without calling for a transport, there was no way to rescue the Friends. Or Obi Wan, who wouldn't leave without them.

He gritted his teeth.

"Skywalker." Mace Windu's shimmering effigy blinked into existence over the projector plate. The tall Korun master folded his arms and fixed Anakin with a curious glare.

"Master Windu," he began. "I need to request reinforcements in the Rhellis 5 system. Master Kenobi and I have discovered a refugee group which requires immediate evacuation from a level three radiation environment. We'll need a cruiser to transport them and gunships for the extraction."

"_Gunships?"_ Windu repeated, dark eyes narrowing. "Have you encountered enemy forces out there?"

"Dooku's got a watchdog out here…and there's a legion of new seeker-killers down on the surface. He seemed to know we were coming," he admitted.

Mace's brow furrowed. "That's disturbing," he growled. "Where is Master Kenobi?"

"He's on-planet, master. The refugees can't survive without a Jedi presence – he chose to remain behind pending evacuation. I'll explain later."

Anakin watched the dark man's eyes shift sideways, off-camera, doubtless to Yoda. His mouth had thinned to a hard line, and when he turned back to the holoprojector, his intimidating mien was carved in more unremitting lines than ever. "The Senate will not likely commit more ships and resources to an occupied system for the sake of one group of survivors. An engagement over Rhellis Massa could easily cost more lives than it saves."

Keenly aware of the bridge crew and Cody, silent witnesses to this exchange, Anakin clamped down the churning resentment, stilled his shaking flesh hand, the tremor of random electrical pulses twitching in his mechanical one. "So we're going to abandon them," he stated, flatly.

Mace Windu sighed. "We don't wish to leave Master Kenobi in such a compromised situation," he replied, slowly. "Can he be extracted?"

"He won't go without the rest of them," Anakin asserted, confident that this was true.

"He'll do what the Council commands," Mace cut across him, a flash of cold authority reaching through the Force, even across all the intervening parsecs.

Something cold and leaden plummeted into Anakin's gut. Oh, Force. What _would _ Obi Wan do? He wouldn't abandon the Friends, would he? Not after he had promised to help them… not even if the Council ordered him to leave the besieged planet. Would he? Or would he? "With respect, master," he tried again, "The Force led us here, so that we could help. I don't think Obi Wan's going to give up just because…uh.."

"Because _what,_ Skywalker?" Master Windu demanded, his darkling gaze just as penetrating in the hologram as it was in life.

Anakin swallowed down the bile rising in his throat, the hot and burning lump of anger fighting its way past his control. He forced himself to drop his gaze. He could do this. He had to do this. For Obi Wan – not to save him from destruction at the hands of Dooku's mechanical army, but to save him from himself, from making this choice again. He had to pretend, he had to _make_ himself believe the way Obi Wan did, that the Living Force and the Council were not tangled in fatal opposition. That there had to be a way to reconcile authority and instinct. He breathed in, deeply. He could do this, for his master.

"Because of a difficult obstacle, Master Windu. He trusts me to find a way past the blockade."

Mace relented, a little. Because it was Obi Wan they were talking about. "I _should _order the pair of you back to the Temple immediately," he sighed.

"Yes, master." Anakin blinked. Had those docile words actually sprung from his own lips? If only his former master could have been there to hear it.

"I'll go directly through the Supreme Chancellor's office," Master Windu decided. "So you had better make this work, Skywalker."

"I will, Master Windu. I promise. You can rely on me."

The imposing Korun master nodded once, a glimmer of … something - not quite trust, not quite hope, but definitely edging on confidence- warming the depths of his eyes for a fraction of a moment. "May the Force be with you," he ended, his blue image stuttering into nothingness again.

"Stand by for reinforcements, sir?" Cody asked, detachedly.

"And I want a special task force assigned to my personal command. I'll take Oafer and Gripes, and a couple veterans."

"Right." Cody glanced round at his hand-picked crew. "Pyro. And you, Slake. Yer goin' with the General once we hit dirtside."

"Sir, yessir,"" the pair of clones chorused, in eager unison.

* * *

><p>Obi Wan knelt in the loamy soil of the subterranean garden's uppermost tiers, and felt for the struggling pulse of life beneath its surface. There was nothing; the mycellia of the fungus in this level had perished, leaving but hollow corpses behind. While life still swelled and flourished on every side, he could now sense the growing lacunae in the midst of abundance, the widening gaps where death made ingress upon the magnificent edifice of life. As SenSen Xerxes waned, so did the garden, and therefore inevitably the Friends. This symbion circle had reached the limit of its long and fruitful circuit, and must soon submit to mortality, like all living things.<p>

"Is it dormant?" the Pau beside him asked, hopefully. "Are you able to help it, Master Jedi?"

He shook his head. "No, I'm sorry. It's quite dead. It should be removed – and the soil here amended. " He knew a few things, a scattering of lessons absorbed on Bandomeer, more than twenty years ago. And instinct supplied the rest. With study and time, he _could _make this work. If he had to.

The Pau sighed. "Let us do it now, then." He clambered over the retaining wall and returned a few minutes later with long-handled spades. Below them, around them, other Pau and Ichth'chtzl labored, taking their turn cultivating and harvesting the dying garden. How many more weeks would it sustain them? When would oxygen production reach a critical low? Water? Warmth? Long before the fungal orchard perished, the Friends would have gasped out their last.

Obi Wan grasped the tool's well-worn handle. It would be much simpler to drag the offending root system out of the earth with a simple application of the Force…but he found that he craved manual labor, an anchor for his tumbling thoughts. Hitching his saffron-toned robe up above his knees and baring his chest like the other workers, he set to work with a will, digging the hardening knots of the dead mycelium out bit by back-breaking bit. The Pau grunted and sweated beside him, uncomplaining.

The thudding rhythm of their tools against the unyielding fiber punctuated his reflections. _Immortality. _ A strange offer. A Jedi did not crave immortality. Indeed, all those who had lusted for unending life over history's long sweep of years had been victims of the Dark, seduced by its lure. The desire for immortality was no mere shadow of greed, but its apex and crown. Life was the Force; immortality claimed for an indiviual the prerogative of the All. Didn't it?

He hacked out an obstinate portion of the root, and lifted it out with brute strength, hissing as he dropped it to one side. There was more to be done. The Pau chuckled, offered him a comradely smile, set back to work.

Master Xerxes did not feel Dark. Nor did the message he had sent through the Force, that painful illusion of familiarity, the bidding disguised as a visitation. These things were unwelcome, perhaps, but they were radiant with Light, with harmony and balance. Why then would the ancient Jedi taunt him with the offer of such a stained and perverted gift as _immortality?_ Was it a test? Possibly. If so, he hoped a curt refusal would suffice. He had no interest in delving deeper into forbidden mysteries, twisted arts. Down that path lay temptation, and he did not intend to set so much as a foot upon it.

His tool struck rock and sent a shock of pain up his elbow and shoulder joint as he hammered down into it. Both he and his companion were coated in a thin grimy layer of perspiration and grit. It was _uncivilized…_ but not intolerable. It was necessary. And far preferable to the gore and filth of a battlefield.

"It fights hard for something which is dead, eh?" his Pau colleague jested, with a deep chortle.

"Yes," he agreed, somewhat absently. All life fought hard to retain its claim upon existence; even Jedi did thus. Life was… good. It was the Force. It was Light. Beings flowed into existence from the Force because… because…Light was self-diffusive, overflowing, abundant by its very nature. To _shine,_ to be luminous, to be filled with the Force – this was the core and the summation of existence. To see that radiance snuffed was painful, undesirable, something to be avoided, A Jedi sacrificed himself for others, that they might not taste mortality prematurely… and so, death was opposed to the Light. Immortality was a natural expression of Life, purest Life, the Force itself, for the Force did not and could not perish. Immortality was merely unending obedience to the Force's will. And besides, there was no death. Immortality, as described by its delusional seekers, as conceptualized by philosphers and fanatic devotees... this was a mere illusion, a trap woven of empty words. Wasn't it?

He stood, wiped at his streaming face. The humidity beneath the cave roof was overwhelming. He felt slightly dizzy. A few deep breaths steadied him, rooted him back in the present moment. With a wry smile, he thrust the flat shovel-blade back into the soft soil. Brooding again - and masterfully so.

The Pau drained a water skin and handed him another. He tipped it upside down, greedily consuming every last drop of warm moisture. The water was heavily laden with minerals, and tasted of rock, of ageless solitude. They stood and looked upon their handiwork, the uncouth mess of mangled root and clotted soil, the grave-like hole where once life had made its abode.

And then he felt it: a cold hand squeezing about his chest. Danger.

Head snapping to the cave entrance below, he unfurled his senses through the plenum, seeking, scenting…

Intruders had found the outer seal, and were even now breaching the radiation lock. A spike of urgency flared through his limbs, the Force sparking to vibrant battle-energy within him. Not waiting to hear his companions' cries of worry and dismay, he sprang from the topmost tier to the floor in one mighty bound, and sprinted for the bunker's shielded entrance, 'saber hilt already leaping, almost of its own accord, into his waiting hand.

They had been discovered.


	17. Chapter 17

**Fallout**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 17<strong>

Obi Wan dashed through the upper access corridors, the remnants of the original bunker system that he and Anakin had traversed earlier, the mainly disused hive of old residence and storage areas lying between the deeper communal living chambers and the long-forgotten door to the outside world. He nearly skidded into the decontam-field, coming to an abrupt halt at its shimmering edge. To hurl oneself through a polarized ion extraction field would be… uncomfortable. He thrust one bare shoulder into the resistant energy barrier and slowly slid through, shuddering as it pulsed over skin, raked hair into wild upright spikes. On the far side, it was chill, and dark, as though he had crossed the ethereal barrier from life into death.

Danger lurked beyond the last hatch. He faced it squarely, saber thrumming to sudden blazing life. He looped the blade in a wide, sweeping flourish – the double arcs of warning carved through the air before him, Soresu's opening salvo: _do not tread on me._ Danger peaked, focused, roared behind the thin metal shell. His 'saber came up high, forward-facing, his left hand extended outward in the posture of _deadly defense, _ the second warning issued to the foe. The Force stilled to a contracted center of power; his blade sang high and thirsty, weightless in his grip; danger exploded into rampant destruction, disregarding all warnings.

The inner hatch was blown off its moorings in a fiery shout of rage; the hurtling projectile met the lightsaber's merciless edge, sheared into two molten-edged halves, flew past to smash into the decontam field with a dreadful jolt of spattering energy. Lances of heat and light erupted from the field, flickered about walls and ceiling, ringing the scene in wrathful fire.

The droid came next, squeezing through the aperture like a crustacean molting its cramped skin. First serrated forelegs, then disk shaped body, and finally a writhing swarm of other appendages, double and triple jointed, spears of cold durasteel. Clusters of leering eyes gazed redly at their prey. Behind the first monstrosity was another, and another. The 'saber growled low in the chill air, prophesying doom.

The hunter-killer lunged forward, firing as it came.

And was repelled by the motionless fluidity of light, a sapphire defensive sphere carving thin air into strange, luminous solidity, a wall of sweeping fire. Laser bolts pinged and ricocheted off the 'saber's blinding edge, ploughed into walls, burned through the droid's curving head, chewed off limbs and gouged out eyes. The legs thrust into the invisible armor next, and shattered, their molten remnants falling like wind-whipped rain, spinning into the ceiling, sizzling as they whizzed into the ion field beyond. The second and third droids pushed forward, vying to reach their target, a forest of murderous claws seeking purchase in exposed flesh.

The sphere moved; the defensive circle widened, shifted, danced; the blade screamed high and sweet, sonorous cries of warning, of fulfilled promise; destruction closed round the Jedi, a black fist grasping at smoke; malice peaked to a frenzy and was impaled on its own fury. The blue blade sang out, clarion-pure, as it sheared through the bulbous head of one opponent, as it cleaved legs from moorings, as it burned optic sensors out, hammered into hard-forged carapaces, dismembered the freakish assemblage of parts into their cold and leaden components.

The assailants dropped, in mangled pieces, to the hard floor.

The saber growled low again, content with its work. Obi Wan looked about himself, at the mess littering the makeshift foyer, the glowing edges of the metal faintly echoing the crimson energy field behind. He deactivated his weapon and clipped it back at his side, poked at a long burn on his left forearm. One shot _had_ grazed past his guard, a bit close for comfort, but the damage was negligible and wouldn't show beneath his tunic's sleeve. Good thing Anakin wasn't here to see it, however; such evidence of Soresu's fallibility might have fueled further inane debate about _protective measures._

He listened, with his ears and the Force, and then moved forward, stepping over the jagged aperture where the hatch had been blown apart, and into the radiation lock. The protocol droid lay in charred pieces, distributed idly among the four corners of the small chamber. The outer hatch was gaping open, the ray shield beyond already destroyed by Anakin. The only remaining barrier between the hostile world above and the fragile sanctuary below was the decontam field itself, flimsy armor against inevitable assault. He let out a breath between his teeth, a nearly inaudible hiss. Time was running out.

A crackle from the hallway behind had him turning sharply, hand brushing his saber's pommel; but the disturbance was merely Sen Sen Xerxes passing slowly through the decontam field. The Thisspiasian appeared on the near side of the shimmering wall, a saber of antique design in one of his broad hands. He slithered carefully through the maze of broken droid parts, his powerful tail flicking one or two aside with an audible snap of disdain.

"I see you are well accustomed to warfare," he observed, veiled eyes taking in the carnage. "I have never seen droids of this kind."

"Oh, they're all the fashion now." Obi Wan waved a hand at the clutter. "Everyone who's anyone has some. Personally, I'm inclined to think it a passing fad."

The ancient Jedi moved forward solemnly, taking note of the scrapped guard, the ruined hatches of the radiation lock. "I fear our defenses are grievously compromised," he murmured. "You and I should retreat. There are exposure risks even here."

ObI Wan nodded, grim-faced. "Yes," he agreed, allowing the Thisspiasian to lead the way back through the useless chamber and into the narrow hall. "But there are certain to be more droids soon. Have you no other means of sealing off this entrance?"

They pushed through the energy field together, enduring its prickling resistance stoically. On the far side, the air was soft and warm, welcoming them back into the realm of life and safety. Obi Wan ran a hand through his crackling hair, vainly attempting to smooth it down.

"It is possible to collapse this entire tunnel," Sen Sen Xerxes replied. "That is an emergency feature built into the early design. But the remainder of the bunker is reinforced by triple alloy duranium, and the deeper portions are located beneath countless metric tons of rock. We do not possess tools to free ourselves again should we opt to close off this exit so emphatically; such action is a desperate last resort."

They hurried back down to the Friends' abode. "The two of us may not be able to hold off an entire legion of droids," Obi Wan reasoned. "If it comes down to it, master, is there _no_ other way of accessing the surface?"

"There are fault lines in the cave ceiling above the gardens," the ancient master replied, slowly. "I have located them over time, and I believe that with a judicious application of the Force, I could cause a controlled collapse, opening a fissure to the surface. But this is futile, for such an action would permanently condemn our refuge to radiation exposure and destruction."

Obi Wan exhaled. They were doomed if they opened a second exit; and they were equally doomed if they did not, whether from slow starvation and asphyxiation, or at the hands of droid marauders. Their only hope of survival rested with Anakin, and the slim chance of a miraculous evacuation without interference from Dooku's hordes. "We must be patient, then, and make that decision when the time comes," he decided.

"That time comes swiftly," Sen Sen Xerxes replied. "There is little need for patience, Master Kenobi."

* * *

><p>Anakin pried open the fused edges of the access panel and bared his teeth in a soundless snarl. "<em>Boshuda,"<em> he grumbled, a part of him moving beyond dismay to reverent admiration for his own handiwork.

Artoo agreed emphatically.

"Yeah, yeah," the young Jedi mumbled, scooting himself further beneath the wrecked Delta's hull. "Just release the fuel router and make sure you don't – aaargh!"

The astromech whistled a forlorn "ooops" and burbled a long string of abashed excuses as Anakin wiped the sudden downpour of dark sludge off his face and chest.

"Kriff it, Artoo, I said _don't _ open the intake valve."

Apology did not translate easily into the little droid's limited scope of expression; but a mournful bloop did follow this last remark, so Anakin let it slide. This time. He was too preoccupied counting down the minutes until his promised reinforcements arrived to pay much attention to his own discomfort or filthiness. He had hoped that fixing the Delta would prove a sufficient distraction, but even the complexities of mechanical trauma repair could not fully purge his mind of fear.

The dull thump of hard boots against the scuffed decking brought his attention back to the present moment.

"Ah, General Skywalker, sir?"

It was Oafer, the redoubtable hangar crewman. "What is it, trooper?"

The clone shifted and respectfully addressed his General's feet, protruding from beneath the Delta's ruinous starboard side.

"Commander has assigned Gripes and me to your special task force, sir. We were hoping you could brief us on the mission, sir."

"Huh." Anakin snorted to himself. His dramatic re-arrival had unnerved the rookie clones, he guessed. Badly enough for the clone to risk a breach of protocol by addressing him in such a bold manner. He wasn't about to take jittery men down into an already tense situation. "You worried about something, Oafer?" he grunted, slamming the panel shut and pushing himself out from beneath the starfighter's wing.

The clone saluted and kept his eyes straight forward. Gripes stood just behind him, in an identical posture. "We learned a few things on Kamino, sir. One of was, Jedi don't spook easy."

Anakin stood, wiped his filthy hands on his lubricant-saturated tunic, peered into the clone's faces. "We don't," he affirmed.

"So, ah, we were concerned about the situation dirtside, General.. Seeing as you just scraped by the enemy out there, sir."

The young Jedi glanced over his shoulder at the charred fighter's hull. "That," he informed his men, "Was not scraping by. That was teaching 'em who's boss."

"Ah, yessir." The clones remained determinedly interested in the far wall.

Anakin straightened his spine and threw back his shoulders. "Your concern about the upcoming engagement is misplaced, troopers," he declared, warming to the subject. "You're approaching it the wrong way in your head, as though it's a matter of matching strength and power against strength and power."

The two rookie clones risked a miniscule sideways glance at each other, confusion lurking in dark gazes.

"We don't need to outpower Dooku's forces, up here or on the surface. Agility and cunning are far more useful allies than aggression and force. We will outmaneuver him, slide in under his guard, accomplish our objective and be out of here before the Seps know what happened."

Gripes looked pained. "We're not gonna fight 'em, sir?"

"True victory doesn't always come from _fighting,"_ Anakin continued, delivering this speech with flawless inflection and emphasis – after all, he'd been captive audience to the best improvisational orator in the Temple for way too many years – "There are far better ways to achieve mastery over a situation than direct combat."

The troopers looked upon him with that expression he had always longed to see bestowed upon his own person… the look that mingled awe and the unspoken sentiment _there's no figuring a Jedi master._ He stared them down and didn't relax until their shoulders dropped in relief.

"It'll be an honor to fight –uh, serve- under your command, General Skywalker."

"Copy that."

Anakin nodded curtly, keeping what he hoped was an appropriately taciturn commander-on-deck reserve. The clones saluted and marched off to their other duties, leaving him standing in pleased silence.

Artoo whistled low and expressively behind him.

"Yeah? And _you're _full of loose wires, like Obi Wan always says," Anakin snarled back. "And those _were_ my own words. Mostly."

What did a droid know anyway?


	18. Chapter 18

**Fallout**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 18<strong>

No sooner had he finished his makeshift repairs to the Delta, than Anakin began to feel weariness tug at his mind and body, a seductive invitation to rest. He couldn't allow that, however; to sleep now, despite the taxing stretch of hours that lay behind, and the harrowing task that lay ahead, would be a _betrayal. _ He and he alone kept vigil over the distant surface of the planet, and its hidden refugees. By his will, by his _power,_ by his singular attention, he would hold off assault upon the Friends and his master for as long as possible. He felt that were he to slacken that focus one iota, malice would sneak past his guard and strike, before he was ready.

Before he could be there to help.

That had happened on Tatooine. It could never happen again. He could _not_ be too late to save anyone, ever, ever again.

And so he stayed awake. Meditation helped a little. But fear helped more. Not that Anakin felt fear – no, he was far past that, a Knight of the ranks, and a General who dined with death every other night, when he had no other engagements. Fear was his companion, his vassal. It was always present at his elbow, attendant upon him, obedient to his bidding. It whispered counsel in his ear, obeisant and humble. Obi Wan had tried to teach him release, the banishment of fear. His would not be so easily exiled. Instead he had tamed fear, made it his friend and ally, a thing to be used just as a tool was used. And that counted as mastery over fear, didn't it?

Now, in the endless night of the star system's outer fringes, suspended in an agony of waiting while the promised reinforcements crawled sullenly through a hyperspace tunnel, like reluctant children chivvied out of bed to attend dreary lessons, he permitted fear to keep him awake with its mutterings. It was a dutiful jester, leaning into his regal ear and spouting a fair torrent of nonsense, all edged with just enough poison to jolt his weary senses into new alertness.

_If the droids overrun the bunker, Obi Wan will have to fight them alone. How many can he hold off, and for how long? If he has to sacrifice himself to assure the Friends' safe exit, he will. He'll collapse the whole place on top of the droids, taking himself out with them. I'll never be able to find him, to dig him out. Or they'll take him captive.. what if I can't get back in time and they drag him off to Dooku before I can rescue him? What then? Master Yoda said to stay close, and here I am, far far far away, just when danger is brewing. Then it's my fault. What if he dies down there in the battle because he won't wear Sith-damned kriffing armor and a random bolt flies past and hits him in the side or the chest, and I wasn't there to watch his back?_

This whole stupid mission was Obi Wan's idea. The Council didn't send them on this one – no, that was his old master, obeying some inexplicable impulse, some supposed vision from the Force. How about that? What in the kriff were they doing out here in the first place? Obi Wan had no right to go endangering his own life on the prompting of every fleeting premonition. He had obligations that superceded personal whim – obligations to the Order, to the Republic, to _Anakin._

Who cared about the Friends anyway? Sen Sen Xerxes got them into their mess, and he could kriffing well get them out again without calling in Obi Wan to do the dirty work for him.

"Master Skywalker, sir." He started badly, enough for Cody to see him if the clone commander was paying attanetion, which Anakin hoped he hadn't been.

"Yes?"

The commander's dark eyes bored into his, challenging. That last question might have been a bit snarky, but Cody could just shove it, wipe that mildly dispproving look off his face. You'd swear he was taking lessons from Obi Wan, the way he stood there with his arms crossed just-so over his chest.

"The reinforcements have arrived, sir. They reverted six points off the outer orbital lane. Captain O'Cheo would like a holo-conference with you, General."

"Right." He followed Cody back to the bridge, where a shimmering blue figure stood waiting above the projector equipment. O'cheo was no clone; hard-faced, graying, he was an naval officer of some experience. His eyes slitted in disapproval when the young Jedi appeared in camera range.

"General Skywalker," the man sniffed, raking Anakin up and down in patent disapproval. "I understand that we need to effect an evacuation from a level three radiation hazard environment. Let us discuss naval tactics. I strongly disrecommend taking the cruiser down into atmosphere. Briefing materials are indicative of a strong risk to stabilizers and dampers."

Anakin stiffened. "It's my command, Captain. And I'm ordering a tactical descent. Your ship will come in on the far side, sunward, while the frigate draws fire from the first line of attack. We'll release the gunships in the stratosphere, and take them down to the rendezvous point from there. I'll need you to wait for our signal before returning to orbit."

O'Cheo's dark eyebrows beetled together. "There are enemy ships in orbit as we speak," he said tartly. "Your plan involves a great drain on our defensive shielding. I will order a gunship drop from orbit without risking atmospheric damage to this vessel."

"No you won't," the young Jedi growled. That was suicide for the men; the only thing it would preserve would be the cruiser's paint job, and O'cheo's personnel. Anakin wasn't about to sacrifice half his troops to make sure the arrogant Captain came out of this engagement with a clean casualty record.

O'cheo waved a thin datapad before the holocamera. "My commission, General Skywalker, places me in command of this vessel and mandates that we provide suitable support for your ground operations. It does not entitle me to indulge in reckless waste of life and resources. You may be a Jedi, my young sir, but I refuse to play at _god_."

Wrath exploded in the Force, stealing Anakin's breath. He held up a hand, crushed the fingers into a hard fist. Macro-klicks away, O'cheos' datapad burst into fragments, sparks and circuits dropping from the man's shaking hand.

"Consider yourself promoted, then," Anakin growled, rage rasping in his throat, girding his voice with steel.

Silence. O'Cheo swallowed. The clones behind Anakin stilled into awe-filled submission. The Force churned, thickened into a hot and turgid shadow.

"As you say, General," the Captain choked out. "We'll follow your lead."

* * *

><p>Artificial dusk settled gently upon the Friends' domain: the glow-globes dimmed to a deep orange, labor and chattering ceased as the denizens of the subterranean world retired to sleep, the pervasive sweet scent from the central gardens spread in a thick blanket as the diurnal rhythm shifted.<p>

Obi Wan found himself alone with the ancient Thisspiasian Jedi again. They walked – and slithered – along the main corridor connecting the deeper levels to the original bunker system, scales and bare feet issuing hardly a sound as they passed, the Force flowing placidly about them, an invisible mantle lending warmth against the chill of oncoming danger.

"You will wish to sleep, of course," Master Xerxes remarked. "I have long since laid aside slumber in favor of meditation, but you are quite young."

Obi Wan's eyebrows rose. He _should_ rest, particularly since he anticipated taxing battle ahead, but he doubted such a reprieve would be granted him. Not when there was so much to… brood upon. "May we speak of your earlier offer first?" he asked, coming to a halt.

The ancient Jedi peered at him intently, the silver of his hair and beard cast in a ruddy light by the soft glowlamp beyond. He might have smiled, but it was difficult to discern his expressions. "Come," he said, waving open the door to a small chamber, a tiny cell provided with a low sleeping mat and adorned on one side with a strange carving, pockmarks and holes arranged in a vaguely script-like pattern.

"Ichth'chtxl artisanship," Sen Sen Xerxes explained. "Alas, in all these years I have never yet learned to decipher their writing system. It relies on pheromone traces in the indentations, you see. They tell me this is a poem, extolling the fierce loyalty and love of one generation for the next. Their people bloom and fade quickly, you know; in a century, we have seen seventeen generations here."

"Ah." Interesting, perhaps, but he was preoccupied with the impending attack – and even more distracted by the question that had been posed to him earlier that day. They sat, gravely contemplating one another across the small space.

"You have considered my offer, then," the Thisspiasian stated. "Are you willing?"

Obi Wan inclined his head slightly. "I have considered it, yes." He hesitated. The Force was placid, offering no counsel, nor any warning. The crossroads lay before him, yet no indication was given that _this_ way or _that_ was the path to destruction. "I do not desire immortality, master. That is not the Jedi way."

Master Xerxes breath fluttered the loose strands of his long beard. It might have been an amused chuckle. "I do not offer you a Dark path," he assured the younger man. "Do you not trust me?"

Their eyes met. "With respect, master, I am well aware of your past disagreements with the Coucnil. I know that your way is not Dark… yet I do not know that your way is the path of tradition."

"It is not," the ancient Jedi affirmed. "Does that disturb you?"

Did it? Well, of course it did! What sort of a question was that? He smiled wryly, deflecting the uncomfortable inquiry. "Our tradition has been safeguard and guiding light for millenia," he said, firmly. It was true; he _knew_ it. He had learned it, the hard way. "I would not presume to look past it. I am only an individual."

The Thisspiasian tilted his silver head to one side. "Yet that tradition was founded by individuals and is interpreted and developed and applied by individuals, at every moment. Your Council is nothing more than an alliance of individuals. You yourself have many times embodied this tradition according to your own individual conscience and will, else you would be an automaton, a drone."

"Yes, but…_immortality._ A Jedi does not crave such things."

Sen Sen Xerxes sighed and repositioned his coiling tail beneath himself. He interlaced his long fingers. "You do not crave death, either."

"Of course not. But I will accept it when the time comes."

"Master Kenobi: I would not have offered you this wisdom if I thought you _craved_ immortality. But will you accept it, if the time comes?"

Obi Wan released the breath which had crouched, waiting, at the bottom of his lungs. It slid out into the warm room, to mingle with the scent of the fungal garden, with the glittering laughter in the Force, just beyond conscious perception. His belly twisted with a nervous tension he had not felt since the age of thirteen, when he first looked death squarely in the eye and _accepted _it.

"It is a gift, not a temptation, which I offer you. Will you accept that which you do not understand?"

Who was he to accept such honor, to claim such high mysteries as his own? "Master, I am not… such wisdom, such teachings… they are not for me. I thank you for you offer, but I decline. I am a servant of the Force. I need nothing more than what has been allotted me already."

Master Sen Sen Xerxes appeared shocked, almost disbelieving. He was silent for a long moment, the Force faintly ringing with astonishment, and then humor. "Ah," he murmured softly, as though speaking to himself. "He is more than worthy… I agree with you there. But he is not yet ready."

"Master Xerxes?"

"Forgive me, my friend." The Thisspiasian spread his gnarled hands. "I understand your decision. And now I will leave you to your rest." He rose on his powerful lower extremity, and gazed down on his guest. "May the Force be with you."

When he had departed, sliding the door shut behind him, Obi Wan remained sitting, eyes tracing somberly over the contours of the Ichth'chtxl inscriptions on the opposite wall. The space seemed suddenly chill, and he longed for his cloak, to shed the exotic saffron cloth of the Friends' robe and armor himself in the symbols of Jedi anonymity, submission, humility. The sleeping mat waited behind him in clear invitation, but he doubted his mind would find release.

He closed his eyes and reached instinctively into the Force, into the Living center.

_It was a good answer, but not the only one. You have much to learn still._

"I know that." He winced at the truculence underlying his own tone. He really should sleep. And stop talking to himself.

_I agree. Rest now._

Warmth surged within the Force's depths, suffusing blood and bone, weighting limbs with longing, smoothing over thoughts like a hand brushing across childish scrawling in the sands. He rolled onto the sleep mat, feebly resisting for a moment. And then the soft tide of light washed over him again, achingly familiar and yet infinitely distant. He exhaled, and surrendered.

_It's a beautiful poem, by the way._

But he was too tired to respond, or even to comprehend..


	19. Chapter 19

**Fallout**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 19<strong>

When he woke, it was early. That is, the hovering glow-lamp's sphere had warmed to a soft yellow, spilling fresh radiance through the small space. Obi Wan rose, dispelling the initial lethargy with a few deep breaths, feeling his pulse settle into rhythm with the ethereal surge and ebb of the Force's currents. He arched backward into a deep back bend, placed his hands on the floor, and slowly rose to a handstand before dropping over in the opposite direction and rising to his feet, rolling one shoulder to loosen a bit of lingering stiffness. Tucking a stray fold of robe back into place, straightening the sash and making sure his saber was secure in its place, he waved open the door. The Force urged him onward, full but not urgent – prickling on the nape of his neck, not yet a full diaspora of warning flooding through his veins.

The time had come; but there was still time.

Master Xerxes met him halfway. "Enemies approach," the ancient Jedi murmured, as they stood together in the empty hall.

"Gather the Friends in the garden cave," Obi Wan told him. "That will be the safest place for them. I shall guard the entrance."

The Thisspiasian nodded curt approval of this plan and slithered in the opposite direction to shepherd the Friends to their place of refuge. Obi Wan proceeded up the tunnel, toward the decontam field and the broken gates beyond. The thin energy barrier pulsed in mild protest as he pushed his way through yet again, from warmth into cold, fragile safety into the graveyard of the droids he had scrapped. Their scattered remains still lay in deathly stillness on every side. He picked his way among the debris, stepped through the ruined inner hatch to the radiation lock. He swept the severed head and torso of the protocol unit to one side with a flick of his wrist and set about rummaging in the storage compartments.

Assault loomed on the horizon, drummed faintly beneath his awareness, a taut beat of danger creeping steadily nearer. The Force swelled with dark expectation.

He found the discarded armor and helmet. With a sigh, he unbound the sash about his waist and pulled the Friends' simple garb off, dropping it in a mournful saffron heap upon the floor. Peace, and peacekeeping, were no longer his purview. War had come unbidden to the galaxy, and unbidden to this place, which had slept lifeless beneath the withering gaze of its constellations for more than a century. War had come unbidden into his life, and he was subject to its demands. Lip curling over bared teeth, he tugged and yanked the detested clone armor bodysuit into place, grimacing at the _constricting_ effects of the tight-fitting design.

"Blast it," he grumbled.

Boots. Tunic, tabards, sash – all rather worse for wear, singed and frayed by the corrosive rain. 'Saber back in its accustomed place. If Anakin had his way, greaves and chestplate would be added to this fantastic ensemble. He must look a sight, like the prizefighters in a lowbrow gladiatorial arena deep in Coruscant's underlevels.

"Force help me," he muttered, holding the despicable helmet between two gloved hands.

He jammed it in place, hissing slightly in disgust as the visor came down over his field of vision. Thus arrayed for battle, and armored against the malignant radiation which even in these few minutes had doubtlessly bombarded him, he moved upward, through the winding sublevels and basements, noting the possible defensive points in the sprawling labyrinth. There were places which might be used to advantage of either invader or besieged defender; but on the whole, the passages were cramped, treacherously low-ceilinged, dark, and slippery underfoot. It would not be a good place to get caught in a fight.

Above, in the grand foyer of the capitol building, a new waterfall of toxic water dribbled into its time-worn pool, cascading over the dome's broken rim and pouring idly down, a translucent and twisting skein of spite. Tiny droplets spattered and danced around the edges of the overflowing basin, an acidic puddle overflowing its bounds, lapping softly over cracked and shattered tile. He skirted it, edged his way to the main doors, peered out into pre-dawn redness. The clouds hung lower than ever, oppressive with the promise of more rain. Did the skies ever stop their lamentation here? Did the planet's dead oceans rise into clouds every night, to renew the funeral mourners' tears?

Looking down the length of the main street, the canyon of mausoleums, he could feel the ghosts of Rhellis Massa fade at long last, the delicate bubble-like suspension of memory in the Force finally burst and dissolving beneath the new onslaught of violence. Battle droids' clanking and emotionless hatred would soon replace the fine tracery of past suffering – crude scrawls dragged with thoughtless fingers through the fine spread ashes of the departed.

He withdrew into shadow as the first transport landed, outside the city's limits. From its bowels issued rank upon rank of standard units, super battle units, and more of the monstrous hunter-killers he had faced earlier. Size and numbers mattered not…. But he could not help noticing that there were rather _a lot_ of them. All here to ferret him out of hiding, and doubtless destroy anything that lay in their path.

It was but the tail end of a lurid procession; war had called Sen Sen Xerxes here, all those long decades ago; Sen Sen Xerxes had called _him_ here, by some means and "intermediary" he still did not understand, nor wish to; and his presence had called Dookus' minions down in their turn, closing the circle. War begets war, unto the end of time. He looked up at the cloud-veiled heavens. If Anakin were there, if help had been sent from Coruscant, it was hidden from him. Much was hidden, here. He seemed to stand alone and unaided, cornered like a foxill driven to ground by relentless hunters.

His fingers sought out and closed round his 'saber's hilt, the hidden crystal calling faintly to him within its gleaming armor. The legions of droids began their inevitable march up the ruined street, shadowed by skeletal towers and bone-bleached walls. The sun peeked angrily over the horizon, squinting blindly at the grim scenario displayed for its amusement. And the first spatter of sweet, burning rain fell, like a dark benediction, absolving them all of conscience and regret.

Rivulets ran across the blank visor, silent tears which did not penetrate beneath the helmet's faceless leer. Inwardly, Obi Wan closed his eyes and sank into the deep center, the fulcrum point of the brewing storm.

The enemy was here, and Anakin was not. He would do what he must.

* * *

><p>Turbulence seized and shook the cruiser as they descended into Rhellis Massa's upper atmosphere. Jostling bodies; shoulder plates clacking dully as the men brushed together in the cramped bellies of the gunships waiting on-deck; the faint scent of sweat and fear mingling with the tang of newly primed blaster charge cartridges, hastily jammed into gunstocks – Anakin was accustomed to it all now, though mere months ago he would have cringed at the prospect.<p>

In the Force he could feel the distant frigate drawing fire away from the larger ship, Cody's confident command of that situation. He could feel O'Cheo above on his own bridge, fuming at the Jedi General and his orders, but too cowed to even think of disobeying. The mighty capital ship sank deeper into the cloudy mire of the dead world's skies, bumping and shuddering a little despite its size. Must be a nasty storm swelling over the coast; the position of Dooku's ships had necessitated an awkward descent over the south pole, coming up on their destination near the terminator, where slow dawn trickled over the planet's bleached corpse.

Already the first detachment of droid scouts was pummeling them with fire, pesky flies harassing a lumbering nerf. Anakin wasn't worried – he knew full well what the inevitable effect of flying droids through such heavy particle emissions would be. Droid fighters were supplied with high density plasma-repelling shields, not ungainly general dampers. In about ten standard minutes, their scanning arrays were going to develop serious glitches. The radiation would fry their cybernetic brains, and then the fun would begin.

"Get ready," he barked at his team, and the order was passed on from ship to ship. The hangar deck officers waited to open the massive bay doors overhead. The gunships rose on repulsors, gyrating softly above the polished decking, ready to burst through the mag barriers and into battle. An other minute, another…. Anakin grinned as he felt O'cheo's disgruntlement spike into sharp alarm. _Coward._ And then a reverberation, directly overhead, on the bay doors – one of the enemy fighters spinning out of control and crashing headlong into its target.

"That's it. They're blind! Let's go!"

The mighty panels parted, admitting gusting wind and billowing wisps of cloud into the aisle between starboard and port hangar bays. Gunships swarmed through the containment fields, and up through the widening aperture, rising into a sickly yellow sky, backdrop to a frenetic dance of vultures and hyenas, droid fighters lost in a haze of radiation induced vertigo.

"Get us dirtside fast," Anakin barked "…And blast 'em at will."

Beside him, Griper chuckled. "Thought we weren't gonna have to fight 'em, General!"

"This isn't fighting, rookie."

"Yeah, rookie," Oafer chimed in. "Shut yer trap."

The clones loved target practice, especially when the targets were drunker than the guests at a Jawa wedding. Soon enough the rotating turrets of all twelve gunships were spraying destruction in every direction, and the thin sheets of rain were joined by a hailfall of molten debris, burning slag. The pilots' shouts of glee echoed over the linked com systems. Anakin smiled just a little. This was the easy part… they may as well enjoy it.

O'cheo's garbled voice broke in over the comm. "General Skywalker," the Captain complained. "Our scanners are non-functional. Your gambit has crippled our defensive capacity. I strongly recommend a return to orbit."

"Not on your life," the young Jedi hissed, not caring who overheard this contest of wills. "Let Cody handle it – he can run faster than they can, and you're not maneuverable enough. I need you ready and waiting directly over the rendezvous point."

"With respect," the naval officer snarled, "Without active scanners we may as well be sitting here deaf and blind. You've put this vessel in a position of extreme vulnerability."

Anakin glared at the holoprojection, and it shivered, as though wavering beneath his withering regard. "Put your shields on maximum and _wait for my order,"_ he commanded, mechanical fist clenching spasmodically. "_Trust_ me, Captain."

The man's face contorted into an expression of mutinous resentment, but fear shone through his vexation like the candle of a paper carnival lantern. He nodded curtly, and his image disappeared.

The distractin was deadly. "Incoming!" their clone pilot hollered.

Anakin had not sensed the danger; a blasted droid fighter's hull was careening at them wildly. The sudden lurch of the gunship to starboard coincided with his instinctual reaction, the bright-hot flash of Force energy, pushing outward, fending off the spinning projectile. The men tumbled against the portside blast doors, the droid whizzed overhead, barely missing them, Anakin was half-crushed beneath the heap of soldiers. He took somebody's rifle but in the ribs.

In the red emergency lighting, clones scrambled frantically away from their General, pressing themselves in to the corners of the packed hold, helmeted faces turning this way and that in consternation, clearly expecting something or somebody to be crushed to a sparking pulp. Anakin sat sprawled on his backside, his anger at O'Cheo simmering beneath the bruises. The men cowered, the helmet comms quiet as death.

""Sir!" Oafer choked out, saluting. "Our apologies, sir!"

They plummeted through the atmosphere, through acid and blasterfire and a flurry of broken droid bits, rocking madly side to side in the murderous wind. Silence. And then the terrifying young Jedi laughed, a deep feral chuckle blending relief and wild exhilaration.

And the men laughed, too, as they hurtled toward the battlefield, and their waiting foes.


	20. Chapter 20

**Fallout**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 20<strong>

Things got ugly once they hit the ground.

Anakin charged full-tilt at the swelling ocean of battle droids pouring into the ruined capitol's interior, like lines of harvester beetles spilling into the soft innards of a split gourd. The shattered protective dome curved above them as they clanked and shuffled forward, mindless and soulless, filling the dust-laden streets and overflowing into the empty buildings. Like a slow flood set to drive womp-rats from their underground burrows, the mechanical invasion oozed through the dead thoroughfares, piling inevitably up the ceremonial stairwell leading to the government building's blasted façade.

His heart hammered in protest. _So many… _ why? Dooku must know , since he knew enough to come to this far-flung and forgotten planet in the first place, that there was no Republic military presence here. Why send hundreds upon hundreds to retrieve one or two? The excess of it, the overpowering show of force and sheer numbers, was a spark set to still-hot embers hidden in his memory. They flickered, caught fire, leapt back to burning and painful memory. Geonosis. A _thousand _ battle droids, pouring into the arena, an ocean of death. The moment when he felt himself, and Padme, and Obi Wan – his most beloved family, his wife and his brother – surrounded by death, by hatred, by empty, crushing despair. He had wondered then, in blank incomprehension, _why so many?_

Then, it had been a trap. Now, it was nothing but cruel spite. The droids had been sent to slaughter whatever or whomever they found – he was sure of it. They had been sent in such vast numbers to break the spirit of the Jedi who had so foolishly crawled into the trap, like blind beasts rooting in the earth, following the lure of some delicacy, some bait set to draw them in and corner them, lay them bare and vulnerable to the hunters…

His breath rasped, and his headlong charge carried him to the last ranks of droids. He had outstripped his troops, running ahead. The gunships tore overhead, blistering the close-packed ranks of machines with plasma fire, gouging out wide gashes in their legions, hot furrows of slagged metal and stinking dust. The droids' uniform march disintegrated into a chaotic melee; soon he was a blinding sphere of wrath hurtling through their lines like an angry comet, a cold and contracted ball of hatred with a long pennant of destruction flying in its wake.

It was a trap! Dooku had set this trap somehow! He had…somehow… _made_ this happen, sent some Dark Side message to Obi Wan, brought them here to kill them, like he had almost done on Geonosis, like he had promised to do should they meet again. And Sen Sen Xerxes…. that old, conniving, twisted _barve._ He must be in league with Dooku… this was all a horrific manipulation, a web of lies and deceit and trickery.

And Yoda had sensed it. And he, Anakin, whom Yoda had expressly commissioned to _stay close_ to Obi Wan, to protect his master, had _failed! _Once again. It was happening again. He was too late, he wasn't there, he had come back too late, the trap was sprung and his mother Obi Wan Geonosis Tatooine his arm Dooku the Tuskens hate hate hate – it was all around him, walls of fire, rivers of fire, dark voices chanting – screaming- in the fire, in his blood.

He could hear the voices – the ghosts of Rhellis Massa chorused with the whispers of the dark, nourished them, fed them and fanned the flames. They were another army, another pale and invisible swell of power, gathering around Anakin as star-dust gathers about the nova's center, as emptiness swells and coils about the imploded heart of a black hole. The droids were Dooku's, and these voices - this lingering, unfulfilled, terror-blind, hate-sodden choir of _vengeance, _ sweet obliterating _annihilation- _ this was Anakin's. His. The Chosen One's.

The rising chorus was a siren call; it _called_ the droids to him. Dimly he registered his men calling to him, to slow down, to wait for them, but he could not wait. There was no waiting. His foes were drawn in, summoned to their judgement. He was implacable, merciless; though soulless, lifeless, he condemned every one of them to the Hells, marking their hollow corpses with the burning line of his saber, the damning signet of his displeasure. They fell, they piled about his feet, they bowed down into nothingness as he surged onward, toward the steps to the capitol building.

There- at the summit – fighting for all he was worth, a tiny candle flame of Light amid the crushing avalanche of killers, stood Obi Wan. Anakin could hear the other Jedi's saber sing out, high and frantic, and his own blade seemed to answer. And fear blossomed anew, because there was still so much distance between them, because he was too late, because he was going to _fail_.

His saber shore through a droid, impaled another, beheaded a third, carved the next into six pieces, bisected its partner's head to mechanical crotch, blurred into a raging howl of denial as he spun it about himself, the battle-cry of his own invisible allies. The hatred of Rhellis Massa, the ethereal dust of rage floating in the Force around the ruined world, obeyed the summons. He took it all in, all of it, channeling it, containing it, banking its fires behind his eyes, beneath his breath, within his veins, until he felt he was dying, torn apart by it.

He drove forward. A vulture careened overhead, streaking toward Obi Wan, toward the lone besieged figure defending the arched entryway, holding back the flood of destruction. It swooped over the battlefield, hollow eyes leering with bloodless thirst, with empty, unfeeling lust. Anakin grasped at it, not with his hands, but with Darkness. The hurtling fighter droid seemed to hit a wall in midair, a net of malice. Anakin dragged it out of the sky, flung it down in to the bitter earth with the power of his will, with a snare of shadow and terror. The impact left a crater, flung droids sky-high, shook the ground beneath his feet.

He ran, toward Obi Wan, away from the rising panic inside himself, across the ruinous landscape, closer, closer, closer.. killing crushing carving spearing slicing _destroying_ everything, his heart weeping screaming shouting howling with pleasure, with wild painful enjoyment, terror and longing and -

_It's __ark, its Dark…help. Help. I'm not supposed to do this…I can't… it's wrong, not again, no no no…_

"Anakin!"

It was Obi Wan's voice which saved him. Like a slap of ice-water, like a bitter wind that extinguishes a fire, that voice quenched the Dark's hungry clamor.

"Master!"

He looked with new eyes, vision no longer smeared red with a sand-storm of vengeance. He was at the summit of the stairs. He had made it. He wasn't too late. Obi Wan was next to him, hidden behind the clone armor, but shining even brighter than ever, white tongues rippling invisibly about him in the Force, waves of channeled Light. Anakin closed his eyes, basked dizzily in the radiance for a half-second, then raised his blade to ward off the next salvo of blaster shots.

They fought, desperate. Above them, the cracking arches of the capitol building's entry crumbled, fluttered down in rivulets of white dust as deflected fire slammed into roof and walls, shattered statuary, broken tile. Two sabers blurred and howled a defiant song, tone and overtone, twin lines of sapphire dancing in the midst of oncoming death.

"What _took_ you so long?" Obi Wan demanded, grunting as he batted away four rapid-fire shots and then plunged his saber through a stalking hunter-killer's glowing eye.

Anakin leapt to stand back-to-back with him, Force pushing an SBD into the roof, ducking to sever its companion in two. "Waiting for reinforcements!" he explained breathlessly.

Obi Wan's voice actually cracked a trifle as he shouted in disbelief. "_What_ reinforcements?"

Another wave of droids pounded up the stairs, pushing them back inside the foyer. The acid waterfall spattered behind them. Droid parts sailed through the air, hit the trickling column, sprayed hot droplets like blood. "They're _coming!"_ Anakin snarled, wondering what was taking _them_ so long. "Patience!"

They spun, retreated again, changed positions. Now Obi Wan had Anakin's back. Foes fell around them like drifting autumnal leaves. New ones kept piling through the doors, from three directions at once. The air stank of acid and plasma, rang with the saber's strident voices, the burbling malice of the droids.

"Anakin-" Obi Wan carved through a droid. "Leading your troops-" He Force pushed three away – "Implies being _near_ them!" He leapt over the next attacker, buried his saber in its head, backflipped off the carcass as it collapsed in the pool of corrosive rainwater. Bitter liquid sloshed over their boots.

"They're _coming!"_ the young Jedi shouted hoarsely. He lifted the wrecked droid with the Force and sent it hurtling into the next wave of attackers. His blade flashed to the left, catching a bolt destined to hit his friend's exposed side. "Obi Wan! Focus!"

There were _hundreds_ of droids, more squeezing in every second. Where were the clones? How thick could it be out there?

"Back into the bunker system," Obi Wan commanded, slicing two droids with one sweeping strike. He caught four more shots, beheaded a new attacker, kicked its body into the next one with a high roundhouse kick.

But their means of retreat was blocked. In fact, they stood on the rim of the acid puddle, surrounded on all sides. There was a momentary cease-fire. Countless ranks of enemies closed in, blasters and cannon leveled at their targets, waiting. The two sabers hummed ominously. The rain trickled over the dome's broken lip and spattered musically on the tile behind them. They could hear each other's breathing over the helmet comm. system. _In, out, in, out. _

"!"

"Take _this,_ clankers!"

Oafer and Gripes burst into the droid rearguard, and a handful of blinking spheres sailed majestically through the air, their graceful arcs seemingly suspended in time. There was a horrible moment when the clones realized that their Generals were neatly pinned inside the crushing assembly of droids, that it was too late to stop the grenades from falling, detonating, taking out everything in the room…

The two Jedi, on purest instinct, in perfect unison, threw up their free hands. The Force blazed with Light, and the space blazed with terrible fire, crushing waves of heat and power. Metal, circuits, weaponry, sparks and burning slag pummeled the walls, the roof, the floor, the bodies of the two Jedi slammed mercilessly into the shallow pool behind. Their combined Force shield saved them from destruction , but not the rainfall of sharp pieces and hot shards, nor the bite of the acid.

Breath knocked clean out by the shockwave and the impact of Obi Wan's elbow in his midriff, Anakin fumbled onto hands and knees, seized his companion's arm, dragged him upwards. A grotesque bramble of charred droid bits hemmed them in. Coughing, gasping, limping, they shoved through it. The thud of four pair booted feet joined them, and new pairs of hands hoisted and pushed at their limbs, at the obstacle course.

"…The _bunker…_" Obi Wan choked out. "Inside. Defend it."

Outside, battle raged on, Soon its tides would wash over this chamber again. They stumbled and ran their way through deep passages, sub-basements, cellars, to the radiation lock.

"Get in. Go," Anakin ordered his squad. They obeyed without question, still wordless with awe and mortification. The inner and outer hatches were ruined; more evidence of battle was strewn on the floor. Ahead lay the shimmering decontam field. The clones slid through first, then the Jedi.

On the other side, Obi Wan ripped off his helmet, his unruly hair comically imitating the flash of vexation in his eyes. "For Force's _sake,_ Anakin!"

He yanked off his own head covering, met the accusation head on. "It's not my fault!"

Obi Wan's piercing gaze flickered over the younger man's shoulder, to where the clones stood cringing against the corridor's far wall. Oafer stepped forward, removing his own helmet and saluting, his olive skin pallid with fear. "Ah…. General Kenobi, sir," he ground out, swallowing hard. "I take full responsibility for our recent action. I gave the order to use grenades." His amber-colored eyes managed to make brief contact with the Jedi's before riveting themselves on the opposite wall.

Anakin opened his mouth to defend his men's actions, but Obi Wan's annoyance had already melted like steam curling in the warm, scented air. Humor edged his words with knife-like clarity. "In the future, " he recommended, dryly, "You will toss grenades at _enemies."_

Oafer blinked, and swallowed again. "Sir yes sir," the foursome intoned.

"But good timing," Anakin added, grinning.

"Yes," Obi Wan drawled sarcastically. "Your rescue tactics are more than worthy of General Skywalker."

The rookie clones glowed with pleasure. Anakin scowled. "You're welcome," he muttered to his friend's back.


	21. Chapter 21

**Fallout**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 21<strong>

The Friends were milling about the floor of the garden cave, confused and fearful. Dim light filtered from the banks of hovering glow-globes, playing gently on the insectoid people's waving antennae and the long, dour faces of the Pau. Children clutched at their caretakers' skirts, chittering or whining softly. Sen Sen Xerxes hurried forward to greet the Jedi and their contingent of clones when they emerged from the tunnel system into the wide domed space.

"There is a droid invasion force on the surface," Obi Wan informed him in a low voice. "Republic troops are engaging them as we speak, but there is a good chance the front entrance will be overrun. I think we must collapse the tunnel if they penetrate as far as the radiation lock."

The Thisspiasian nodded gravely. "Then our only means of escape will be this chamber – and once the roof is compromised, there is no going back."

"We will delay that event as long as possible," he assured the ancient Jedi.

Sen Sen Xerxes nodded, again, then unexpectedly lurched forward, grasping at Obi Wan's arm for support as his weight sagged.

"Master Xerxes?"

The ancient one released a pained breath of laughter. "There is another event which cannot be much longer delayed, I fear," he muttered, one broad hand massaging his chest, where the crisp layers of golden cloth crossed over his heart. "Ah… this mortal shell is at the limits of its long endurance. Your arrival releases me from my duties."

Anakin's hand gripped insistently at Obi Wan's free shoulder. "Just a moment," he growled. "_You_," he addressed the ailing Thisspiasian. "You led us into this."

Sen Sen Xerxes straightened, gently extricated himself from Obi Wan's hands. He trained his dark eyes upon the furious young Jedi. "Master Skywalker," he replied. "Your anger is not welcome here among the Friends."

Anakin's brows gathered into a thundercloud of warning. "You lure us here with…with your _message…_ and then you call down Dooku on our heads. Don't think I can't see through a trap!"

Obi Wan shot out a hand, closing his fingers around Anakins' right wrist before his hand could stray toward his 'saber hilt. Anakin wrenched himself free, resentment flaring like sudden lightning on the Force's horizon.

"Anakin!"

"No, let him speak," the ancient Jedi declared. "You accuse me of treachery, Skywalker. Why? What reason have you to level such dire accusations against another member of our Order? Have you no respect or trust in our sacred oaths?"

Frustrated, teetering on the brink of rage, Anakin whirled to face his mentor. "Master! Don't tell me you don't see what a load of _bantha poodoo_ he's been feeding us! I can _feel_ how uneasy you are about this whole thing. You don't understand how he was able to speak to you through the Force – do you? You know why? Because it's a Sith _trap,_ master. You shouldn't have _listened, _ you shouldn't have _come!"_

Obi Wan stepped back, reflexively, heart hammering once before he reasserted control. Sen Sen Xerxes said nothing, only watched them, sadness billowing off him in soft, ethereal waves. The Force churned darkly around Anakin, shadowy fingers of accusation pointing at the Thisspiasian, at Obi Wan, at the Friends. Was it a trap? It was true that he did not understand at all how the message had been delivered, nor why he had been chosen to receive it. They were indeed in great peril here, hedged in and caught neatly in a snare. There was no explanation for Dooku's prescience of their arrival. There was no explanation for any of this…. but his heart told him that _treachery _ was not at its root.

"Anakin," he forced himself to say, voice flat and emotionless. "You are mistaken. You must trust Master Xerxes."

"Why?" his former Padawan ground out, a corner of his mouth lifting to reveal clenched teeth. Perspiration trickled along a throbbing vein in his temple, rolled slowly along the still-bright scar over his right eye. It was oppressive under the dome, and the thick layers of armor did not help.

"Because I trust him."

That was no answer at all, so far as Anakin was concerned. His mouth thinned into an all-too-familiar line. "_Why?" _ he demanded again, thrusting against Obi Wan's mental shields with savage force.

He flinched, gritting his own teeth against the invasion. How _dare_ Anakin attempt to breach his privacy?

"Give me one good reason!" Anakin insisted, snarling. He bore down harder.

_Because you trust me, _ the voice – that singular, familiar, beloved voice answered from within the Force's hidden depths.

He slammed his armor back in pace, threw Anakin off with sufficient lack of restraint to send the young Knight reeling backward a pace, hissing under his breath. "Mind your _thoughts!"_ Obi Wan snarled in his turn, addressing himself and Anakin at once, one no more than the other. _Control. _

Master Xerxes slumped again, and Obi Wan moved to catch the failing Jedi beneath the arms, to lower him gently to the floor. The powerful tail writhed, coiled tightly and then lay limp, scales brushing roughly against the floor. Friends came running, in twos and threes, until a wide circle of whispering concern cradled the scene. He knelt beside the dying Jedi. "Anakin," he ordered, not making eye contact. "The entrance."

Sen Sen Xerxes groaned deeply in pain, his luminous spirit ripping free of its moorings, tearing loose from blood and tissue, bone and breath. Long, gnarled fingers twitched, gripped at his elbows, bruising in their last strength. Anakin's glare burned a hole between his shoulder blades, but _there was no time for this._ He felt the young Jedi leave, taking the clones with him. He felt the Friends draw closer, terrified, sorrowful. He felt the Thisspiasian shuddering between life and death, lungs stuttering unevenly as Light wrenched its slow way into liberty, into the Force, abandoning its mortal dwelling place.

The end was near.

* * *

><p>Anakin stormed back toward the radiation lock. Pyro, Vetch, Gripes, Oafer followed behind, their white armor gleaming dully beneath the orange light globes. The clones said nothing, only followed their young General with determined strides, all the way back to the narrow entry point.<p>

The clatter of droids descending through the capitol building's bowels echoed down to them, a skittering and shrill sound, dull clanking and the squeal of metal on metal.

"They're comin'," Gripes remarked, clipping a new charge pack into his blaster. "Five against five hundred. What'dye reckon about those odds, eh, General?"

Anakin snorted. "They're outnumbered." The tumult drew nearer.

"Should we set the explosives?" Oafer asked, fiddling with the contents of his pack. "I got plenty to spare – could take down this whole passage an' a lot of what's on top, too."

"Yeah," Vetch grumbled. "Only how're we getting' out again?"

There was an awkward silence. Anakin glared over his shoulder. "We'll improvise," he told them. "Set the charges. But don't blow the passage till I give the order."

The clones set to with enthusiasm, packing the high density chemical explosives into crevices and keypoints in the structure. They worked with the academic precision of men who have practiced a skill in the sterile confines of a training center until it is second nature to them, with the eager giddiness of children experimenting with a dangerous new toy. The droids grew ever closer; the Force tautened, warped; Anakin's 'saber thrummed into life, burning hotly in his hand, impatient, eager for the clash.

He swept it in a wide circle, waited. The droids crushed into the radiation lock, relentless, maniacally calm. The foremost fired shots at him, and he rebounded the projectiles into the mass of legs and arms and armored bodies. A few fell; others trampled them in their eagerness to reach the prey.

"Retreat," he growled. The word tasted like the sting of Watto's lash on his back… like the embers of a dead fire… like the stink of disinfectant chemicals in the air when he woke in a medbay after Geonosis. But he spat the syllables out anyhow, and edged his way backward, deflecting fire in a blinding dance while the clones pumped the oncoming ranks of droids full of plasma bolts. They reached the edge of the decomtam field. The troops pushed through first, backing slowly into the safety beyond. Anankin remained, holding off the murderous swell of machines until the last possible moment, until they were practically on top of him and the sweep of his blade threatened to dismember their leaders.

He shouted as he shoved the entire throng backward, the Force pouring through him without mercy, ripping the cry of effort and pain from his throat. Droids slammed into those behind, tumbled into their brethren. Gasping, he backflipped through the decontam field, springing powerfully through the air. The rapidity of the motion was a mistake; the energy barrier snapped and raked harsh lightning over his body, lancing through his clothing, slamming into the energy-dispersal bodysuit like a maelstrom of invisible fists.

He landed on the opposite side, tunics smoking, prosthetic arm crackling with randomized electrical charges.

The droids hit the barrier, began to push through.

He waved an arm at his squad. "Back! Back!" They scrambled into the wider passage.

Oafer's thumb hovered over the detonator. "Ready and waitin', General."

The first droid made it through the decontam field intact. Anakin batted blaster bolts back into it. The head flew off and bounced in the floor. A limitless crowd of others stomped and pounded behind it, filing the hallway, the chamber behind it, the radiation lock, the cellars and passages beneath the ruined buildings above.

"Now!"

First there was the flash of light, and a moment later the deafening roar. The warm perfumed air transformed to choking dust, to shuddering waves of heat. The floor buckled beneath them. Destruction rained down.

They ran, pushing further into the bunker, pelting down corridors and tunnels for the newer construction, the deeper places. Like a slow dirge, repercussions sounded out in steady rhythm – new explosions, more collapsing ceilings, imploding walls. they were pursued by crushing oblivion.

"We mighta overdone it!" Vetch panted, sprinting flat out behind his brothers as they ran to escape the inevitable, as they fled before the avalanche of stone and girders and falling support structures.

"Keep moving!" They dove through a broad, reinforced arch, a threshold between the original bunker and the later excavation, skidded down a final stretch of passageway, and arrived breathless in the central domed chamber, where the Friends' garden rose in graceful tiers almost to the distant roof.

Obi Wan still crouched amidst the small crowd, Sen Sen Xerxes lying supine beside him. Anakin thrust his way through the press of bodies, Pau and Ichth'chtxl alike, until he too stood in the center of the gathering. The Thisspiasian's eyes were closed, his breath rising and falling slowly. The Force swelled about him, with an unfamiliar vibrancy. His light did not seem to fade, but merely to diffuse into the whole cavern, a spirit beginning to unravel into striating ribbons, glittering ethereal banners.

"Master."

Obi Wan's eyes met his, guardedly.

"We're sealed in," Anakin muttered. "The entry tunnel collapsed, maybe a good deal of the basement beyond. We'll need another way out."

They stood, a pair of eager Pau and a hoary Ichth'chtxl hurrying forward to tend to the fading Jedi master. The crowd shifted, parted around them and re-formed its protective circle as Anakin drew his friend apart, toward the base of the garden's terraced pyramid.

"The only way out is _up,"_ Obi Wan said grimly, beginning to ascend the spiraling garden footpath. "Master Xerxes said that the cave roof here is a weak spot. We might be able to evacuate the Friends through the roof while the droids are occupied with our clone forces in the capitol. This should issue out beyond the city boundaries."

They gazed up at the hard curve of the cave roof, spangled with dull stalactites, fretted with dark veins of stone. "We have enough gunships to manage it," Anakin mused. "Don't think the Seps can get their droids loaded back up as fast as we can. And the cruiser's in atmosphere; it would be a close thing but I think we can make it to the hangar bay before their fighters can catch us. But, master… the sooner the better. The distraction won't last long."

Obi Wan stroked his beard, frowning. "I don't think we can move Master Xerxes right now," he admitted. "He's … not well."

"He's dying."

The older Jedi didn't flinch. "Yes. His time has come. He sent for us – for me – because he knew that day was fast approaching. You must not blame him for Dooku's treachery, Anakin."

"Then who do I blame?" Anakin demanded. Because somebody was behind this. It was always _somebody's_ fault.

The older man's eyes hardened. "Does it truly matter? We must simply do what must be done. The why and wherefore can be sorted out later."

Anakin shook his head. It was humid, dizzying at the top of the cave. He reverted to a more practical problem. "Fine. Can _you_ bring down this roof?"

"Without killing all of us? I don't think so." Obi Wan scowled up at the rock above them, as though seeking answers written in the delicate veining.

"Yeah, neither could I. Maybe… together?"

They looked at each other, hope kindling and then fading just as quickly. It was far, far too risky. They might easily crush the people they had come to save.

Obi Wan's mouth twisted wryly. "Well, I suppose we ought to be grateful for small mercies. At least our problem is the solidity of this cave roof, and not its imminent-"

"Don't say it!" Anakin jested, but too late.

"-collapse."

The thunderous reverbration of a heavy long range cannon shook the very foundations of the cavern. Dust wafted down, and an ominous crack appeared amid the smooth surface of the cave ceiling. The Force lanced with white-hot warning; the thousands of tons of stone overhead creaked and groaned; the Friends looked up in utter horror at the slow cataclysm unfolding above them; and the Jedi leapt headlong for safety as the first massive chunk of rock plummeted downward in slow and graceful majesty, crushing the topmost level of the garden to a ruinous pulp.

A shaft of light pierced through the gloom, a spear impaling the sanctuary's heart; and with it came a smothering cascade of dust, poison, and noise – the fanfare of brash and blaring death.


	22. Chapter 22

**Fallout**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 22<strong>

"Anakin!"

He didn't need the warning; the Force blazed in unison with Obi Wan's strident shout of alarm. The two Jedi threw up their hands, summoned the invisible power surging all around them, through them – and pushed mightily against the next chunk of tumbling rock, a massive jagged shard of roof wobbling precariously at the dome's summit. The stone broke free with a deafening snap, and plummeted downward, smashing against the first fallen shard, splitting in two, then plunging down on either side of the garden pyramid.

Anakin gripped the lumpen mass with his mind, gritting his teeth as the pull of gravity translated into a pressure along his spine, under his ribs. Beside him, Obi Wan groaned aloud. The hurtling slab slowed, turned to the side, crashed into the cave floor far from the clustered group of Friends.

"Oafer! Gripes!" Anakin hollered. The clones came running. "Get them out of the way!"

A new cascade of dust and blinding light shafted through the widening gap overhead. Gusts of liquid spattered down, mixing with the swirling dust, into a grey and clinging mud. Anakin swiped the greasy detritus out of his eyes, blinking as the bitter compound set them to burning. Acidic mud – just great.

The Friends shrieked and babbled their dismay, herded fearfully along by the well-trained clones. The full blown crisis stripped the rookie troopers of any naivete, any hesitance. They took to the demands of the moment like battle hardened veterans – and why not? They were _bred_ for life and death situations.

The roof now split and fractured into a web of tenuous seams, a maze of interlocking cracks and crevices, a puzzle threatening to dissolve into a rainfall of boulders at any second.

"Oh, _not good…."_ Obi Wan intoned, eyes fixed on the splintering ceiling.

"It's gonna go," Anakin hissed. "Somebody hit it with a plasma cannon. We need to get these people _out- _now!"

Battle raged above. The scream of gunships' engines, droid fighters, the frenetic exchange of blaster fire, the hoarse cries of clones on the ground: all of it echoed down into the subterranean chamber.

"Anakin. Go up to the surface. Signal your men to bring the gunships over the opening. We can evacuate the Friends through the roof.."

He shook his head, hating the idea. "What about you?" he demanded, already knowing the answer.

"I'll hold it up as long as I can," Obi Wan said, expression shut down. "You need to hurry."

"No, master! I'm not letting you do that!"

"Yes you blasted well are, Anakin! Now go – that's an _order!"_

He seethed, hand closing hard about his saber hilt, eyes flitting upward to the expanding network of fault lines in the rock above them. "You can't pull rank on me!" he shouted.

"I just _did!"_ Obi Wan's eyes were ablaze with a rare intensity – anger transmuted to pure willpower by some weird alchemy, by rigid self discipline. "Now get up there before _all_ these people die because of your confounded defiance!"

Teeth clenched, Anakin flashed one last look of utter defiance at his friend, slammed his helmet back on, and jumped. He landed halfway up the garden's shattered tiers, then ran to the smashed pinnacle. The fallen boulders did indeed nearly reach the opening above. He crouched upon their topmost point, face turned up to the chaotic melee erupting in the overworld, and hurtled himself through the opening, saber spitting into life as he flew upward.

He deflected three shots and slashed through his aggressor before his feet touched the muddy ground above. White armored ghosts and twisted mechanical wraiths struggled in a rain-drenched graveyard. The city's ruined dome curved away beyond, sheltering a another battle. Gunships and droid fighters streaked through the wet skies, throwing fiery insults at each other.

Anakin pounded on his embedded comlink. "This is General Skywalker! Converge on my position. Do you copy?"

He prayed that the radiation interference in the atmosphere would not prevent that message from getting through; and while he prayed, he carved through another dozen droids, rallying the troops in his near vicinity. The cave entrance was soon guarded by a ring of stalwart defenders

"Copy that, General," a garbled voice hissed over the link.

They stood and fought, and the ground did not collapse beneath them. Anakin counted the seconds with his heartbeats. A minute. A minute and a half. Gunships soared overhead, blasting droids right and left, hovering in a tight formation.

He could feel the sustained herculean effort begin to take its toll on Obi Wan. A silent scream was building behind his temples, a sympathetic howl of pain as the Force strained against the inevitable, sought to buy the Friends precious minutes of life. "Come on, come on, come on," Anakin muttered, deflecting fire in a frenzied dance of blue light. The gunships laid down a ring of plasma, blowing the remaining droids to smithereens, keeping the perimeter clear.

It took Oafer and Gripes forever to get the Friends up the garden terrace, and even longer for a detachment of clones above to rappel into the cave, ferrying the stunned and terrified denizens of the bunker to safety. He could hear their loud exclamations of dismay and confusion vying with the clones' sharp orders, could feel the heat of the battle raging in a circle around this tightly contained extraction point… feel the ground tremble ominously beneath them.

"Faster!" he commanded, flaying at his troops' minds with the Force. Why was everyone and everything in the galaxy slower than it needed to be? Slower than he was? Why? He could never, ever, be too _late, too slow,_ again.

The trickle of Friends was interminable. They struggled, resisted being loaded into gunships. Many had to be forcibly thrown into the holds. The Force was turgid with their mounting panic, their sheer incomprehension, their instinctual terror.

The last of the evacuees was coming. Slowly. There was a grinding lurch underfoot. He could feel Obi Wan's strength failing, his grip on the roof loosening, his focus sliding, giving way to exhaustion… the last of the troops was through.

"It's gonna go, General!" Pyro hollered at him as he hauled himself over the ledge. "Go! Get on a ship, sir!" The clone jumped for the nearest transport, was hauled in by two sets of gauntleted arms.

Anakin looked up, looked down. He felt the tremor's crescendo rising, heard the rumble of imminent doom…

And jumped down into the pit just as the cave entrance fell away, tumbling in massive fragments alongside him as he dived, rolling in midair, dodging, twisting, managing the _impossible. _He caught a glimpse of Sen Sen Xerxes still sprawled upon the distant floor, of Obi Wan falling to his knees in exhaustion beside him, of the huge spears and clubs of stone dropping straight down upon them.

"No!" he screamed, his own fall ending on the floor, between two hurtling boulders the size of small spacecraft. And before his helpless eyes, despite his visceral scream of denial, the two Jedi masters were buried beneath the crumbling surface of Rhellis Massa.

* * *

><p>The planet itself seemed to fall upon them, as though unable any longer to bear the weight of its history, of its people's misdeeds. Stone ground against stone, darkness thickened to stifling clouds of dust; and danger throbbed in the Force, a heart-stopping pressure blacking out all other realities.<p>

And then it stopped.

Obi Wan exhaled, and then inhaled, choking on grit and dust. He coughed until his eyes ran, spat a mouthful of filth to one side of the inky blackness. He could see nothing, and feel only Sen Sen Xerxes' limp form beside him. Cautiously raising a hand, he grazed fingertips against a rough-hewn ceiling. Shifting slowly, his searching fingers and arms discovered the confines of their tomb: it was barely bigger than an escape pod.

He coughed some more, his lungs rebelling against the influx of ashy dust. How long until they suffocated? Not very long, he was certain. Was there any means of escape? He doubted it; he could attempt to shift some of the rock surrounding them with the Force, but one wrong move would be instant death. Perhaps that would be a reasonable risk – but he was by no means sure that he _could _shift any of these massive slabs. It would take Yoda… or Anakin in a rage. And how in the name of the Force had they been spared in the first place? It was as though an invisible hand had shielded them from the avalanche, even now cradling them gently in a protective bubble.

He spat again, tasting the harsh and bitter texture of the dust. The air – what little of it there was – could hardly be described as breathable. It would seem he was slated for death by suffocation. Not pleasant. He thrust this morbid line of thought away, felt for Master Xerxes' pulse. It was there still, but thready, feeble.

"Master Kenobi," the dying Jedi murmured.

"Yes. I'm here."

"Your friend…. Skywalker. You must stay close to him."

"Anakin?" Why would the ancient master choose to speak of Anakin in his dying breath? He could not see the Thisspisasian's face. "I do – I will. He is.. a good friend."

Sen Sen Xerxes sighed, a hollow fluting which fractured into a chorus of muted echoes off the ominous walls of their prison. "The balance is shifting… stay close."

Obi Wan frowned over this, shoved it aside to brood over later. If there was a later. There was a long pause, in which he labored to draw in breaths. Perhaps he should attempt to force an escape now… before he lost his strength and focus. But the Light urged him to wait.

"Master Kenobi," the Thisspiasian repeated, so softly that his voice was barely audible over the frantic oxygen-deprived drumming of Obi Wan's pulse in his own ears.

"I'm still here."

"Know this: I did not …betray you….My message…. In good faith."

"Master. I do not doubt your intentions, though I still do not understand."

Sen Sen Xerxes silver beard fluttered as he feebly laughed. "… Nothing to understand. We have…. a friend in common…. ."

A friend in common? Obi Wan felt his brow twist into a pained frown. His heart hammered, his lungs burned, his mouth filled with bitterness. It had tasted the same on Naboo, though he had not been dying then. A friend in common? He did not wish to hear these words.. not now… not when he was so… vulnerable. The blunt assertion, the affirmation of his deeply-buried suspicion, opened a chink in his carefully fortified defenses, his protective rationales. Twin certainties clashed, hammering at a thin barrier erected between deep instinct and what he _thought_ he knew.. His breath hitched. There was _no time for this._

"You deny this?" the Thisspiasian challenged him, voice rasping into sharp and grating shards.. "Why do you not… listen… the Living Force?"

"I do!" he protested. Didn't he? Reduced to childish pleading, he stared down at the hidden face of the ancient master, at the closed eyes he could not see in the blackness. The chink widened, threatened to become a wide breach, a gaping wound in his composure.

"Listen," Sen Sen Xerxes whispered.

He sucked in a breath, in time with the dying master's rasping inhalation. Light twisted, rending through the barriers of flesh, returning to its source. Sen Sen Xerxes gasped. Obi Wan gasped. There was a gentle chiming…somewhere. Nowhere. Light called to light. Sen Sen Xerxes shuddered. Obi Wan shuddered.

_Listen._

He choked back a sob. Truth wrenched free of its veils, tearing past uncertainty, ripping its feckless way past armor and denial. He admitted to what he had known all along. It was impossible and wrong and a thing of awe and splendor. But he could no longer deny it.

There were three of them, wrapped in the Force's embrace.

_Welcome, friend._

Sen Sen Xerxes smiled. "I am coming," he soundlessly mouthed.

_It is time._

"Take care of the Friends," the dying Jedi breathed out.

"I will. You have my word." Obi Wan closed his eyes, reaching, longingly, across the indefinable barrier that separated _this_ and _that. _ The Force swelled, until the very dust motes floating in the thin, hot air of the cave seemed to drift, ecstatic, in a warm and laughing breeze, a gale so strong that it robbed him of breath but so faint that it barely stirred the sweat-dampened hair clinging to his forehead.

Sen Sen Xerxes' last exhalation was a joyful release. Spirit slipped its shackles, dissolved its bonds, brought its long labors to rest. Obi Wan squinted unseeing through the choking dark, confusion and disbelief warring for dominance.

He held only a scrap of cloth. The body had utterly disappeared.

Yet there were still three of them.

It was very, very hot, and he could barely breathe. Death loomed close, beckoning. His chest ached, and yet he felt no fear. There were three of them.

He could _see_ the other two now, with his eyes open and with them shut. Blue as Ilum crystals, luminous. Present. His head hurt. His chest spasmed, fighting for air. Sen Sen Xerxes bowed to him. The other smiled. He stared at that other, mind reeling.

"Master," he whispered, armor shattered to dust with the collapsed cave roof. He shivered violently, dying for want of air, trembling with a strange joy.

_It's not yet your time, _ said the now-manifest voice, the presence robed in Light.

Heat sculpted the blackness into clawing shapes, into spears which pierced his lungs and racked his aching muscles. He gasped, futilely, for the last scraps of oxygen, but there were none left. The luminous blue form of Sen Sen Xerxes faded. Obi Wan peered, through smearing veils of tears, at the other figure, unable to speak, to move, to even think. Crimson swirled behind his gaze, roared in his ears.

_Anakin is coming. You must wait for him – you must stay close to him. Hold on._

His forehead hit the ground with a soft thud; his eyelids drooped. Smothering blackness closed in, drowning thought. And then, as wondrous as the arrival of the gunships on Geonosis, a breath of sweetest, purest, rain-drenched air – incensed with music, alight with gentle laughter. He drew it in, let it sparkle in his blood, though his lungs had long since clenched into a morbid vise. Crimson darkness clutched at his limbs, his heavy body; yet he stilled himself round the tiny Light-drenched gift, a diver's last breath of life as he descends to the utter deeps.

He could hear Anakin calling his name, now, beyond the wall of stone, through their bond. The other presence faded; until he was alone in the dank tomb of black rock, buried alive with nothing but a fold of saffron cloth and Sen Sen Xerxes' lightsaber. And the intimate touch of death – which did not exist. For there was only the Force.


	23. Chapter 23

**Fallout**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 23<strong>

Anakin Skywalker was a mechanical genius. He could fix anything. He could _feel _ the inside of a ship, the intricate puzzle of its inner workings, the warp and weft of welded parts and cybernetic interfaces. There was nothing he could not take apart and put together again.

His breath came in loud rasps, a bellows fanning the dying embers of hope. There was no way Obi Wan had survived. And yet he could not surrender, he could not give up and turn away. He had to _stay_ _close._ Even Yoda had burdened him with the task of savior. It was who he was; _he was born to help people._

"I'm sorry, mom," he whimpered, though she could not hear, was buried herself, beneath Tatooine' s harsh sand. "I wasn't strong enough."

But he was strong enough now. Dooku had made him stronger when he cut off Anakin's arm. Geonosis had made him stronger. The war had made him stronger. Every loss was a gain, because the gaps left in his soul by loss were filled with power, with an overflowing void.

He sank to his knees, the lazy clouds of dust settling on his shoulders in a sticky mantle. The dark places in his spirit extended tendrils of emptiness to the hollow places beneath and between the massive stones, feeling them out, uniting with them. The mighty barrow piled before him was a delicate balance of solidity and nothingness, weight and vacant space. And Anakin was supposed to bring balance. He could bring imbalance too; he could overbalance the decree of fate. He could destroy the balance of life and death, because he was its master.

He began to lift the stones, carefully, in the right order, the Force surging forward at his beck and call. To shift the balance, to move without moving, to undo what destruction had wrought here… he used patience and anger, love and fear in equal measure, balancing them. The stone sculpture groaned, shifted, rumbled. He pushed slabs aside, rolled jutting masses of rock away, lifted delicately steepled shards, felt with his mind for the safe places, the little hollows and caves between the crushing walls of this labyrinth.

And at last he found the bottommost cellar, a little round hovel of space beneath the final stones, a miraculous protective sphere untouched by the millions of tons of despair piled atop it. And there, crumpled in a heap, lay Obi Wan- not flattened to a pulp of blood and bone, but still and unmoving. Beside him were a length of golden cloth and an old lightsaber, nothing more.

A heartbeat later, Anakin was there, dragging his master out of the gritty tomb, a hand hooked under either armpit. Light poured down from the distant surface, through the now gaping hole in the cave roof, the wide maw thirstily gulping in acid rain, dust drenched light, radiation. Obi Wan's helmet had been knocked off or lost… but there wasn't time to worry about that.

"Master. C'mon, Obi Wan. You're missing all the fun."

He watched his friend's eyelids flicker, watched color slowly return to his face. A random cannon blast streaked through the cave opening high overhead , slammed into a boulder, sent splinters of rock spraying down. Anakin shielded them both with the Force.

Obi Wan sucked in an abrupt choking breath, like a newborn gasping its first. The Force blazed to renewed vibrancy, that familiar white corona faintly dancing around the filthy, bedraggled Jedi master. He squinted up at the jagged outline of the broken cave roof, at the cascades of rain and dust, the lurid flashes of gunfire above. "Anakin!" he exclaimed. "What in the blazes are you doing down here?" And in the next instant he was scrambling to his feet, ash-coated hair standing up in wild tufts, eyes flashing with something close to protective fear.

"I'm rescuing you – _again!"_ he shouted back.

They gazed up at the battle raging outside, the circle of fire fretted sky visible through the shattered roof. "You're incorrigible, Anakin." Obi Wan dropped his eyes for a moment, and then looked him full in the face, without the armor of irony and wit. "...But I _am_ glad you came." They exchanged an almost shy smile, a rare moment of unveiled feeling.

Anakin's chest swelled with emotion. Then two shadows blocked the entry, descended upon them in a thrilling consonance of high-powered microdrives. The dark triangles descended, that familiar song of the Delta's thrusters like glorious music to their ears.

"Artoo!" Anakin yelled, leaping exultantly onto his fighter's wing and sliding into the cockpit behind his trusty astromech. "You found us – and Arfour, too! Good rescue!"

Obi Wan followed suit, snugging himself down in the second Delta's cockpit as the droid pilots lifted them up again, straight through the ragged ceiling and into the battle-scarred skies. The sound of clones' ferocious cheers echoed over the ship-to-ship comm. as the Jedi led the gunships up and away, racing for the cruiser which hovered just beyond the first cloud-layers.

The droid transports and their angry swarms were left far behind.

"It's not over yet," Obi Wan warned.

"'Course not," Anakin beamed. Vultures and hyenas dropped below the bilious clouds, like hard droplets of rain, a new threat regrouping and driving toward them in long lines, hunting formations. The fleeing Republic ships, with their cargo of frightened Pau and Ichth'chtxl, laid on speed. The Separatist fleet gained steadily, drawing closer, closer, almost within firing distance…

..and exploded into a hail of sparking comets. The air shuddered with the impact of heavy cannon. Plasma ripped the skies to shreds, pounded into distant mountaintops, chewed through the oncoming ranks of fighters like lightning striking a mosquito swarm. And the curved belly of O'cheo's cruiser darkened the sky, eclipsing the very sun as it descended well into the turgid lower atmosphere, drives shredding clouds to frantic rain, its vast silhouette casting a visible shadow on the land beneath. Either the gunners were drunk or the radiation had fried their sensors; but the sheer power of the warship's cannon made up for its lack of accuracy. The bay doors slowly opened, in slow and majestic invitation.

"General Skywalker," the captain's tart voice snapped over the comm., "I suggest you make haste. I'm not waiting for you another minute."

"Copy that," Anakin grunted, leading the way into the cruiser's belly. His squadrons followed, an armada of heavily laden gunships settling like roosting birds behind the shelter of the magcon barriers. Obi Wan slipped between the closing panels at the last minute, scooting his Delta in close beside Anakin's at the far end of the starboard hangar.

The decks rumbled beneath them as the cruiser powered up through atmosphere, turbulence clawing idly aginst the hull, the last death spasm of Rhelis Massa, clutching at them as they fled.

* * *

><p>Obi Wan sat beside the loquacious B'chthkl as the Ichth'chtxl child prattled away about his new surroundings. He could not understand a word of the young insectoid's peculiar language, but he had the distinct impression – conveyed to him through the Force- that the young Friend still believed Obi Wan to be a human child of approximately the same equivalent age, and was glad for the companionship. The hangar bays had been converted to emergency refugee camps, cots and blankets and foodstuffs dug up from the ship's stores. Once the cruiser was safe from immediate threat, O'cheo proved to be a helpful and efficient organizer of the relief effort. Now, clones moved up and down the aisles of shivering, despondent Friends, scanning each and every one of them for radiation exposure and treating those who registered in the unacceptable range.<p>

It had taken hours of tedious rhetoric and explanation, and a sustained use of Force suggestion, to calm the panicking Friends. Plucked from the only world they knew, imprisoned in the ship's bowels, and now transported to a destination beyond the scope of their imagining, they clustered together, wide-eyed, muttering, a pall of unease still lingering among them, a dark veil shadowing the Force. They had reluctantly accepted him as surrogate Jedi leader, a role he adopted with reluctance – for it must be shed within days, if not sooner. But while he could still help ease their struggle into a broader world, he remained, his mere presence some impalpable comfort to their stunned minds.

B'chthkl shrieked high in consternation when the clones reached their tucked-away corner of the decks.

"Ah, General Kenobi, with respect, we need to scan everyone for rad exposure."

He stood, urging his diminutive companion to do the same. B'chthkl's antennae jerked backward as the clone passed a bioscanner over his thorax.

"He's negligible," the clone grunted. "Built in armor, see?"

Obi Wan stroked his beard. Yes, the insectoid anatomy had its advantages. Not that he would personally fancy being permanently outfitted in hard overlapping plates. The chestplate that Anakin had designed _did_ look a bit like a an abdominal carapace... fire-beetle-ish, even. He shuddered.

"Ah..General…you've got some worrisome readings here…you'll need a detox."

What? _Oh, Force_. "Thank you Sergeant, but I should be able to manage without any –"

"Just shut up and let 'em do their job," a familiar voice chided him.

"Anakin. I don't' think-"

"Go ahead, Sergeant, I'll put him in a headlock if need be," Anakin smirked. The poor clone officer cast an appalled glance at his tech assistant, who merely shrugged and hesitantly broke the steriseal on a new detox kit.

Obi Wan folded his arms and glowered at the other Jedi. "You may as well _say _ it, " he groused. "I know you want to."

Anakin's mouth twitched. "Looks like _Soresu_ doesn't work against degrading particulate radiation, master."

"Here, General, you need to swallow this- all of it, mind you."

"No, Anakin, it does not – but your _armor_ will not save you from the just retribution coming your way as soon as we can reserve an empty salle."

"This is how you thank me for saving your life? By the way, the score is down to forty-one now."

Obi Wan almost gagged on the viscous phosphoperimoxytin." Grimacing, he shook one upraised finger in Anakin's vague direction. "Forty-_two,"_ he gasped out.

"You know it's gonna stand in my favor by the end of the war, right?"

Obi Wan had the back of one hand pressed against his mouth, which spared Anakin from any sarcastic retort.

"Okay, then this," the clone muttered, pressing a hypo into his victim's neck. "You might wanna lie down for a bit, general. That's powerful business, but it works pretty damn good. Bonds with stray particles in yer bloodstream, neutralizes and purges. About two hours standard and we can let you outta this quarantine zone."

"Thank you," the Jedi master wheezed, shooting another fulminating look at Anakin from under his tightly beetled brows.

Anakin bowed to the curious B'chthktl as the young Friend scuttled away to rejoin his chittering clanmates, and chivvied his former master over to a cot in a secluded corner, partially screened by the two Deltas. "I'll come back to check on you when you're not so pathetic," the young Jedi promised, practically bouncing on his heels as he strode away, his pride in victory and their near escape buoying him with a rare luminous cheer.

Obi Wan rolled onto his side and released a long grumbling breath. _Pathetic_? He was going to have to kick Anakin's impudent armor-clad arse next time they sparred. The vile detox treatment cut off his fond imaginary explication of this event with racking cramps, and then nausea, and then what felt like a full-blown fever, replete with delirium. Soon enough even the muffled sounds of the Friends and the attendant clones faded to inconsequence. He pulled his cloak closer around his shoulders and folded into a ball of taut vexation, reflecting that _this_ was not -strictly speaking - pathetic. Not technically.

_But I have always had a soft spot for pathetic life forms, _ the voice said.

He cracked open one baleful eye, and then the other. But he was not to be graced with another apparition. Just the voice this time.

And then a touch, calloused fingers brushing over his forehead, soothing. _Master Xerxes wishes to express his gratitude. And I concur. It was well done, Padawan._

The touch faded. "Wait," he muttered, reaching groggily through the Force, grasping at nothing. "I need to ask you – I need to know-"

_Not yet. You aren't yet ready…but be patient. The time will come._

"But!"

_I think, for now, it would be best if you forgot. Just for a little while longer._

"Wait… master…" But already he could not quite formulate what it was that so concerned him, what strange blend of longing and dread it was that had so seized him, shaken his certitudes, pierced his heart with new, unspeakable horizons of yearning. It was fading… like the voice itself.. like the memory of the voice…

A last touch, no more than a breath of Light on his face. _And wearing armor might not be a bad idea, either, Obi Wan._

Oh. Well, then. "Yes, master," he slurred, and slid away into the beckoning light.

When Anakin returned two hours later, he discovered his friend still blissfully asleep, curled in fetal position beneath his cloak, with a remarkably peaceful expression on his grimy face. He really didn't have the heart to disturb him.


	24. Chapter 24

**Fallout**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 24<strong>

The Hall of Remembrance was spacious enough to accommodate a few hundred, at capacity; but upon the evening of Master Sen Sen Xerxes' funeral observance, only the Council and the two Jedi who had met the ancient Thisspiasian on Rhellis Massa were in attendance. There was no body to commit to flame; and indeed, there was no symbolic need to burn anything in its stead, as might be done for one whose corpse could not be recovered. Sen Sen Xerxes had already proved in striking manner that his spirit was indeed utterly liberated from gross matter. All that remained was to acknowledge his place, and his life of service, within the august ranks of the Order.

Master Yoda spoke the traditional words of the ceremony; succinct, admonitory, pure. And the white memorial beacon was lit, a thin and brilliant spear of light connecting the empty pyre and the distant sky. It was over.

Cloaked and cowled figures processed through the arched doors between the tiered seats, footfalls gentle on the Temple's polished marble floor. In the end, Obi Wan was left alone with Yoda in the hushed serenity of the chamber. Raising two hands, he carefully lowered his hood.

The diminutive master leaned upon his stick, half-lidded eyes reflecting the vertical line of white, wizened features relaxed into peaceful contemplation of its far terminus overhead, where it blended into purple heavens visible through the dome's small open apex. At last he lowered his thoughtful gaze to his companion, ears perking. "Rare privilege is it, to witness passing of a sage."

Obi Wan nodded. "He was a venerable master; I was privileged to know him, even for such a short time."

"Led to his place of exile you were, by the Living Force. Glad I am, that reconciled he was with the Order before his death."

He headed for the door, waiting politely for Yoda to hobble alongside him, each step echoing as his gimer stick accented their slow pacing. "He did not seem …concerned.. about his status with the Council, master, if you will forgive my saying so."

They reached the broad concourse. Yoda waved a clawed hand. "Sent for help from another Jedi, he did. Committed Friends to your care. Trust, forgiveness: the same are they. No words necessary were."

"Forgiveness?" He stopped, beneath a soaring buttress. "Master… may I ask, what was the substance of Sen Sen Xerxes' argument with the Council? I know from the historical records that you were among those who decided not to send aid to him after he went to Rhellis Massa at the end of their war."

Yoda grumbled a little, leaning on the smooth knot surmounting his stick's twisting haft. His clawed fingers rubbed absently at its contours, his eyes sliding up to consider his interlocutor gravely.

"Hmmm. Mistake was that, perhaps." The tiny Jedi loosed a mournful sigh. But then his face hardened. "Or perhaps not. Difficult to know. Clouded."

Obi Wan waited, obstinately extending the silence, unsatisfied with this riddling pronouncement.

Yoda glanced up, snorting. "Forbidden to interfere he was. Rhellis Massa, a hopeless cause had become, so the Council believed. Murdered was the last Jedi to be sent. Disdainful of all intervention, the warring factions were. Master Xerxes well accustomed to defiance was – a critic of the Order and the Coucnil was he, for many years. Feared we did, that one of the Lost he would become. Much was clouded," he repeated.

Obi Wan pondered this for a moment. He thrust his hands into opposite sleeves, frowning at the inlay in the tile beneath their feet, and strode slowly down the corridor again, Yoda tapping along beside him. "Was that defiance related to his esoteric studies?" he wondered aloud.

The ancient Jedi shrugged, his frayed robe crumpling with the small motion. "A student of the Whills, did he aspire to be. Also a believer in prophecy, Obi Wan. Foretold destruction of Order, downfall of Republic. Apocalyptic visions, he courted."

They walked on, through the grand entry hall, where the last rays of sun burned resolute between deep bars of shadow. Younglings scampered by ahead of them, doubtless late for some lesson or activity. "Do you think…? That is, the war has certainly cast things in a different light, master. What if Master Xerxes' portentous visions were true?"

But Yoda only waved a dismissive hand, batting at shadow, dispersing dread as a nerf chases away gadflies with a swish of its tail. "Hmmph. Future. If Dark it is to be, then better not knowing are we. Exist to serve we do, even if twilight it is. Know better, you should Obi Wan. Your mind –"

"Ought to be in the present moment, yes master." Something about that phrase brought him up short again. He ransacked memory, reaching… for….what? The connection was elusive, fading to nothing. He sighed.

Yoda watched him carefully. "Ill at ease you were, before this mission you began," he grunted. "Changed has that?"

Had it? "I suppose so."

"Disturbed you no longer are, hm? The Living Force you have decided to trust?"

Forward again, toward the doors at the far end, the broad entry to the Room of a Thousand Fountains, the Temple's vast meditation gardens. There had been a moment, beneath Rhellis Massa, entombed in its depths, when he had shed all suspicion and resentment. He couldn't quite recall exactly…. But then, did it matter? He had the certainty, and that was all that counted in the end. "Yes, I have."

Yoda beamed upon him. "Good is that."

"Yes, master."

They parted ways at the doors. "May the Force be with you," Yoda said, shuffling his way into the misty interior of the arboretum.

Obi Wan bowed deeply to the Grand master. It was. And it always would be.

* * *

><p>"You're late," Anakin scolded, when Obi Wan finally emerged into the senior upper level dojo the next afternoon.<p>

He got a sarcastic twist of the mouth in reply. "_Pining_ ill becomes a Jedi, Anakin. I had a previous engagement."

"So now I'm Plan B?" the young Jedi lamented, feigning hurt feelings.

"Don't flatter yourself," Obi Wan shot back, selecting a training saber from the rack by the door. "You rate more in the vicinity of _desperate last resort."_

Anakin snorted, flipped his own weapon over in his hand. "So you're desperate."

"For intelligent company, yes." The two blades leapt into buzzing life.

They prowled. "Maybe you should spend less time in solitary meditation, then," Anakin grinned.

"You're right," Obi Wan agreed, amicably attempting to decapitate his companion, "I should spend more time teaching you a well-deserved lesson or two."

Anakin parried, ducked, blocked the next shower of strikes. "In geriatric saber technique?…No thanks. I'm too young for Soresu, master."

They danced around the salle's perimeter, fluidly switching offensive and defensive roles. After a few minutes, they disengaged and warily circled each other in the center of the polished floor. "What previous engagement?" Anakin wanted to know. "Not another mission briefing?"

"No… I checked in on the Friends. They're settling in well enough, thanks to Master Rancicis' kind oversight."

"On Vandor? Ugh. I'd rather live in an underlevel scrap-pile."

"Now you're just waxing nostalgic. I thought you'd outgrown such things."

Anakin lowered his blade, thoughtful. "So they decided to stay together rather than return to their own native species' homeworlds. You would think they'd be sick of each other after all those years at close quarters."

Obi Wan flourished his saber in a lazy circle. "You would think," he affirmed, meaningfully. "The frustrations and resentment engendered by tedious companionship _can_ foster violence."

"True." Anakin replied with academic detachment. "Experience confirms your insight."

Obi Wan looked sideways, bored. "Yes…. most things do."

A heartbeat's indifferent pause.

They fell upon each other like clashing stormfronts, stirring the cycled air into a hurricane of ozone and howling light. The pale walls reflected bright striations of blue and green, flickering shadow-play cheerfully mimicking the blazing original. They ended in a bind, struggling for dominance even as they laughed in breathless gasps.

"Pathetic, Anakin."

"I learned from the master."

"So you're an autodidact?"

The sabers screeched. They pushed, grunted, slipped on the smooth floorboards. A mutual Force push sent them sailing apart again in opposite directions.

They kept their distance – cautious, appraising. "What I'd like to learn-," Anakin began.

"Besides better swordsmanship, I presume."

"-ha ha – is how the kriff Dooku traced us to Rhellis Massa. I'm still not convinced that Master Xerxes wasn't an old fraud."

Obi Wan scowled, paced around the edge of the wide room, blade up in guard position. "That _is_ the question, isn't it? And yet I don't; think he had any idea why we were there; perhaps he thought the Republic was scouting out the planet for a military base."

"He can _have_ it," Anakin said, sourly. "It was… well. We've been nicer places. Like Hoth in midwinter. Remember that? When your beard froze solid with icicles?"

Obi Wan grumbled something unintelligible under his breath, and launched into a new attack sequence, a tricky one which occupied Anakin's attention for the next five solid minutes. They lunged, ducked, parried, exchanged a whirlwind of blows, and ended up disarming each other simultaneously. The two sabers skittered across the room and rolled into the far wall.

"It's a draw," Anakin decided, with satisfaction. "No lectures on Soresu's superiority today, master."

Obi Wan called the two hilts into his hands, strode over to replace them upon the rack. "Oh, I'm sure I can find another subject. What about an extemporaneous speech on the virtues of humility, obedience, and respect for one's elders?"

Anakin folded his arms. "How 'bout one on the virtues of wearing _armor?_ Don't think I've forgotten about our deal."

Obi Wan avoided his gaze, crossing his arms in a mirror version of his friend's posture. "Yes… armor," he mumbled. "I suppose we should discuss that."

Was that… could that be… _surrender_? "You promised to keep an open mind, remember."

"Yes, I did." Now Obi Wan was fascinated by the dojo floor, the grain of the boards, the sheen of the varnish under the mellow lights.

"And?" Anakin could practically taste victory. He bounced on the balls of his feet, chest puffing out slightly. He had out-negotiated the Negotiator. He must really _be_ the Chosen One.

"And… I've decided that wearing armor might not be a bad idea, either."

"You have."

"I have."

It was delicioius. It was…intoxicating. "You're gonna wear the stuff I designed. No more resistance." It was like being Knighted all over again.

"Except the helmet."

"Okay, no helmet." He could afford to be magnanimous, accommodating. Today, Obi Wan listened to _him._ He could get used to somebody listening to him, come to think of it.

"Really?"

Uh oh. He hated it when ObI Wan's eyebrows went up like that. He should have been shielding his thoughts more carefully. His friend's inscrutable gaze was resting on him with an impish abstraction, a look of veiled cunning. "No pay-back, either," he warned, a sinking feeling in his gut.

The eyebrows went up another notch. "Anakin, I would only ever act in your best interest."

"Yeah, so why are you _smiling_ like that?"

Obi Wan could do bland evasion like nobody's business. "Like what, my insightful young _Padawan?"_

There was something wrong about that word… it was far, far more than a taunt. It was a clue, a threat, a wicked seminal idea budding in his mentor's devious mind. It was something which should have tipped him off. But the mental walls concealing Obi Wan's latest piece of treacherous mischief were already firmly in place, and could not be breached. Abandoning hope of penetrating that invisible armor, and resigning himself to keep an _open mind _ about whatever retribution lay in store for him, Anakin bowed and led the way out. At least they had solved the armor question once and for all.

Even if he could _feel_ Obi Wan still smirking behind him as they exited.

Neither of them heard the ethereal voice which chuckled softly in their wake, watchful and gently amused.

FINIS


End file.
